\^e^c^cjc.ji^ 


-•^ 


THE  STORY  OF 
THE  GADSBYS 


BHlf ,  OF  CAUF.  LIBRARY.  L08  ANGFXF> 


The  story  of 
the  g adsb ys 

By  RUDYARD   KIPLING 


R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY  :  PUB- 
LISHERS :  9  &  II  E.  SIXTEENTH 
STREET  :  NEW  YORK  CITY:  1899 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface          7 

Poor  Dear  Mamma 

9 

The  World  Without     . 

27 

The  Texts  of  Kedar    . 

45 

With  any  Amazeiment    . 

^3 

The  Garden  of  Eden    . 

,     81 

Fatima    .... 

97 

The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

119 

The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

•   137 

2130508 


PREFACE 

To  THE  ADDRESS  OF 

CAPTAIN  J.  MAFFLIN, 
Duke  of  Derry's  (Pink)  Hussars. 

Dear  Mafflin, — You  will  remember  that  I 
wrote  this  story  as  an  Awful  Warning.  None 
the  less  you  have  seen  fit  to  disregard  it  and 
have  followed  Gadsby's  example — as  I  betted 
you  would.  I  acknowledge  that  you  paid  the 
money  at  once,  but  you  have  prejudiced  the 
mind  of  Mrs.  Mafflin  against  myself,  for  though 
I  am  almost  the  only  respectable  friend  of  your 
bachelor  days,  she  has  been  dar-wa^^a  band  to  me 
throughout  the  season.  Further,  she  caused  you 
to  invite  me  to  dinner  at  the  Club,  where  you 
called  me  '*a  wild  ass  of  the  desert,"  and  went 
home  at  half-past  ten,  after  discoursing  for 
twenty  minutes  on  the  responsibilities  of  house- 
keeping. You  now  drive  a  mail-phaeton  and  sit 
under  a  Church  of  England  clergyman.  I  am 
not  angry.  Jack.  It  is  your  kismet,  as  it  was 
Caddy's,  and  his  kismet  who  can  avoid  }  Do  not 
think  that  I  am  moved  by  a  spirit  of  revenge  as  I 
write,  thus  publicly,  that  you  and  you  alone  are 
7 


8  Preface 

responsible  for  this  book.  In  other  and  more 
expansive  days,  when  you  could  look  at  a  mag- 
num without  flushing  and  at  a  cheroot  without 
turning  white,  you  supplied  me  with  most  of  the 
material.  Take  it  back  again— would  that  I 
could  have  preserved  your  fetterless  speech  in 
the  telling— take  it  back,  and  by  your  slippered 
hearth  read  it  to  the  late  Miss  Deercourt.  She 
will  not  be  any  the  more  willing  to  receive  my 
cards,  but  she  will  admire  you  immensely,  and 
you,  I  feel  sure,  will  love  me.  You  may  even 
invite  me  to  another  very  bad  dinner— at  the 
Club,  which,  as  you  and  your  wife  know,  is  a 
safe  neutral  ground  for  the  entertainment  of  wild 
asses.  Then,  my  very  dear  hypocrite,  we  shall 
be  quits. 

Yours  always, 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 
P.  5.— On  second  thoughts  I  should  recom- 
mend you  to   keep  the  book  away  from  Mrs. 
Mafflin. 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA 

The  wild  hawk  to  the  wind-swept  sky, 

The  deer  to  the  wholesome  wold, 
And  the  heart  of  a  man  to  the  heart  of  a  maid, 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old, 

Gypsy  Song. 

Scene. — Interior  of  Miss  Minnie  Threegan's  bed- 

room  at  Simla.     Miss  Threegan,  iyi  ici^idow- 

seat,  turning  over  a  dra-vcerftil  of  things.    Miss 

Emma  Deercourt,  bosom-friend,  zvho  has  come 

to  spend  the  day,  sitting  on  the  bed,  tnanipulat- 

ing  the  bodice  of  a  ballroom  frock  and   a 

bunch  of  artificial  lilies  of  the  valley.     Time, 

5 130  p.  M.  on  a  hot  May  afternoon. 

Miss  Deercourt.     And /^^  said:  "  \  shall  never 

forget  this  dance,"  and,  of  course,  I  said:  ''Oh! 

how  can  you  be  so  silly!"     Do  you  think  he 

meant  anything,  dear  ? 

Miss  Threegan.  (Extracting  long  lavender  silk 
stocking  from  the  rubbish.)  You  know  him  bet- 
ter than  /  do. 

Miss  D.  Oh,  do  be  sympathetic,  Minnie!  I'm 
sure  he  does.  At  least  I  v:ould  be  sure  if  he 
wasn't  always  riding  with  that  odious  Mrs. 
Hagan. 

II 


12  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

Miss  T.  I  suppose  so.  How  does  one  manage 
to  dance  through  one's  heels  first  ?  Look  at  this 
— isn't  it  shameful  ?  {Spreads  stocking-heel  on 
open  hand  for  inspection.) 

Miss  D.  Never  mind  that!  You  can't  mend 
it.  Help  me  with  this  hateful  bodice.  I've  run 
the  string  so,  and  I've  run  the  string  so,  and  I 
can't  make  the  fulness  come  right.  Where  would 
you  put  this  }    (IVaves  lilies  of  the  valley.) 

Miss  T.  As  high  up  on  the  shoulder  as  pos- 
sible. 

Miss  D.  Am  I  quite  tall  enough  }  I  know  it 
makes  May  Olger  look  lop-sided. 

Miss  T.  Yes,  but  May  hasn't  your  shoulders. 
Hers  are  like  a  hock-bottle. 

Bearer.  (Rapping  at  door.)  Captain  Sahib 
aya. 

Miss  D.  (fumping  up  wildly,  and  hunting  for 
body,  which  she  has  discarded  owing  to  the  heat 
of  the  day.)  Captain  Sahib!  What  Captain 
Sahib  .^  Oh,  good  gracious,  and  I'm  only  half 
dressed!     Well,  I  sha'n't  bother. 

Miss  T.  (Calmly.)  You  needn't.  It  isn't  for 
us.  That's  Captain  Gadsby.  He  is  going  for  a 
ride  with  Mamma.  He  generally  comes  five 
days  out  of  the  seven. 

Agonized  Voice.  (From  an  inner  apartment.) 
Minnie,  run  out  and  give  Captain  Gadsby  some 
tea,  and  tell  him  I  shall  be  ready  in  ten  minutes; 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  13 

and,  O  Minpie,  come  to  me  an  instant,  there's  a 
dear  girl! 

Miss  T.  Oh,  bother!  (Aloud.)  Very  well, 
Mamma. 

Exit,  and  reappears,  after  Jive  minutes, 
flushed,  and  rubbing  her  fingers. 

Miss  D.     You  look  pink.    What  has  happened  } 

Miss  T.  {In  a  stage  -uchisper.)  A  twenty- four- 
inch  waist,  and  she  won't  let  it  out.  Where  are 
my  bangles  ?  {Rummages  on  the  toilet-table,  and 
dabs  at  her  hair  with  a  brush  in  the  interval.) 

Miss  D.  Who  is  this  Captain  Gadsby }  I 
don't  think  I've  met  him. 

Miss  T.  You  must  have.  He  belongs  to  the 
Harrar  set.  I've  danced  with  him,  but  I've  never 
talked  to  him.  He's  a  big  yellow  man,  just  like 
a  newly-hatched  chicken,  with  an  e-normous 
moustache.  He  walks  like  this  {imitates  Cavalry 
s^ccagger),  and  he  goes  ''Ha — Hmmm!"  deep 
down  in  his  throat  when  he  can't  think  of  any- 
thing to  say.     Mamma  likes  him.     I  don't. 

Miss  D.  {Abstractedly.)  Does  he  wax  that 
moustache? 

Miss  T.  {Busy  -vcith  pozi'der-puff.)  Yes,  I  think 
so.     Why  ? 

Miss  D.  {Bending  over  the  bodice  and  sewing 
furiously.)    Oh,  nothing — only  — 

Miss  T.  {Sternly.)  Only  what  ?  Out  with  it, 
Emma. 


14  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

Miss  D.  Well,  May  Olger — she's  engaged  to 
Mr.  Charteris,  you  know — said — Promise  you 
won't  repeat  this  ? 

Miss  T.     Yes,  I  promise.     'What  did  she  say  ? 
Miss  D.     That — that  being  kissed  {with  a  rush) 
by  a  man  who  didn't  wax  his  moustache  was — 
Hke  eating  an  egg  without  salt. 

Miss  T.  {At  her  full  height,  with  crushing 
scorn.)  May  Olger  is  a  horrid,  nasty  Thing,  and 
you  can  tell  her  I  said  so.  I'm  glad  she  doesn't 
belong  to  my  set — I  must  go  and  feed  this  man  ! 
Do  I  look  presentable  ? 

Miss  D.  Yes,  perfectly.  Be  quick  and  hand 
him  over  to  your  Mother,  and  then  we  can  talk. 
/  shall  listen  at  the  door  to  hear  what  you  say  to 
him. 

Miss  T.  'Sure  I  don't  care.  Fm  not  afraid  of 
Captain  Gadsby. 

In  proof  of  this  swings  into  the  drawing- 
room  with  a  mannish  stride  followed  by 
two  short  steps,  which  produces  the  ef- 
fect of  a  restive  horse  ejitering.     Misses 
Captain  Gadsby,  who  is  sitting  in  the 
shadow  of  the  window-curtain,  andga^es 
round  helplessly. 
Captain  Gadsby.     {Aside.)   The  filly,  by  Jove! 
'Must  ha'  picked  up  that  action  from  the  sire. 
{Aloud,  rising.)    Good  evening,  Miss  Threegan. 
MissT.  {Conscious  that  she  is  flushing.)  Good 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  15 

evening,  Captain  Gadsby.  Mamma  told  me  to 
say  that  she  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes. 
Won't  you  have  some  tea?  {Aside.)  I  hope 
Mamma  will  be  quick.  What  am  I  to  say  to  the 
creature?  {Aloud  and  abruptly.)  Milk  and 
sugar  ? 

Capt.  G.  No  sugar,  tha-anks,  and  very  little 
milk.     Ha-Hmmm. 

Miss  T.  (  Aside.)  If  he's  going  to  do  that, 
I'm  lost.     I  shall  laugh.     \  know  \  shdXW 

Capt.  G.  {Pulling  at  his  moustache  and 
watching  it  sideways  down  his  nose. )  Ha-Hmmm. 
{Aside.)  'Wonder  what  the  little  beast  can  talk 
about.     'Must  make  a  shot  at  it. 

Miss  T.  {Aside.)  Oh,  this  is  agonizing.  I 
must  say  something. 

Both  Together.     Have  you  been  — 

Capt.  G.  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  were  going 
to  say  — 

Miss  T.  {Who  has  been  watching  the  moustache 
with  awed  fascination.)  Won't  you  have  some 
eggs  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Looking  bewilderedly  at  the  tea- 
table.)  Eggs!  {Aside.)  O  Hades!  She  must 
have  a  nursery-tea  at  this  hour.  S'pose  they've 
wiped  her  mouth  and  sent  her  to  me  while  the 
Mother  is  getting  on  her  duds.  {Aloud.)  No, 
thanks. 

Miss  T.     {Crimson    with    confusion.)    Oh!    I 


1 6  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

didn't  mean  that.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  mou— 
eggs  for  an  instant.  I  mean  salt.  Won't  you 
have  some  sa— sweets .?  {Aside.)  He'll  think 
me  a  raving  lunatic.  I  wish  Mamma  would 
come. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  It  was  a  nursery-tea  and 
she's  ashamed  of  it.  By  Jove!  She  doesn't  look 
half  bad  when  she  colors  up  like  that.  {Aloud, 
helping  himself  from  the  dish.)  Have  you  seen 
those  new  chocolates  at  Peliti's  } 

Miss  T.  No,  I  made  these  myself.  What  are 
they  like  } 

Capt.  G.  These!  D^-licious.  {Aside.)  And 
that's  a  fact. 

Miss  T.  {Aside.)  Oh,  bother!  he'll  think  I'm 
fishing  for  compliments.  {Aloud.)  No,  Peliti's 
of  course. 

Capt.  G.  {Enthusiastically.)  Not  to  compare 
with  these.  How  d'you  make  them  ?  I  can't 
get  my  khansamah  to  understand  the  simplest 
thing  beyond  mutton  and  fowl. 

Miss  T.  Yes }  I'm  not  a  khansamah,  you 
know.  Perhaps  you  frighten  him.  You  should 
never  frighten  a  servant.  He  loses  his  head.  It's 
a  very  bad  policy. 

Capt.  G.     He's  so  awf'ly  stupid. 

Miss  T.  {Folding  her  hands  in  her  lap.)  You 
should  call  him  quietly  and  say:  ''O khansamah 
jeer' 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  1 7 

Capt.  G.  (Getting  interested.)  Yes?  (Aside.) 
Fancy  that  little  featherweight  saying,  "0  khari- 
samahjee"  to  my  bloodthirsty  Mir  Khan  I 

Miss  T.  Then  you  should  explain  the  dinner, 
dish  by  dish. 

Capt.  G.     But  I  can't  speak  the  vernacular. 

Miss  T.  (Patronizingly.)  You  should  pass  the 
Higher  Standard  and  try. 

Capt.  G.  1  have,  but  1  don't  seem  to  be  any 
the  wiser.     Are  you  } 

Miss  T.  I  never  passed  the  Higher  Standard. 
But  the  khansamah  is  very  patient  with  me.  He 
doesn't  get  angry  when  I  talk  about  sheep's  topees, 
or  order  matcnds  of  grain  when  1  mean  seers. 

Capt.  G.  (Aside  z^ith  intense  indignation.) 
I'd  like  to  see  Mir  Khan  being  rude  to  that  girl! 
Hullo!  Steady  the  Buffs!  (Aloud.)  And  do 
you  understand  about  horses,  too  } 

Miss  T.  A  little — not  very  much.  1  can't  doc- 
tor them,  but  I  know  what  they  ought  to  eat, 
and  I  am  in  charge  of  our  stable. 

Capt.  G.  Indeed!  You  might  help  me  then. 
What  ought  a  man  to  give  his  sais  in  the  Hills } 
My  ruffian  says  eight  rupees,  because  everything 
is  so  dear. 

Miss  T.  Six  rupees  a  month,  and  one  rupee 
Simla  allowance — neither  more  nor  less.  And  a 
grass-cut  gets  six  rupees.  That's  better  than 
buying  grass  in  the  bazar. 


1 8  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

Capt.  G.     (Admiringly.)  How  do  you  know  ? 

Miss  T.     I  have  tried  both  ways. 

Capt.  G.  Do  you  ride  much,  then  ?  I've 
never  seen  you  on  the  Mall. 

Miss  T.  (Aside.)  I  haven't  passed  him  more 
than  fifty  times.     (Aloud.)    Nearly  every  day. 

Capt.  G.  By  Jove!  I  didn't  know  that.  Ha- 
Hmmm !  (Pulls  at  his  moustache  and  is  silent 
for  forty  seconds.) 

Miss  T.  (Desperately,  and  -uoondering  what 
will  happen  next.)  It  looks  beautiful.  I  shouldn't 
touch  it  if  I  were  you.  (Aside.)  It's  all  Mamma's 
fault  for  not  coming  before.     I  will  be  rude ! 

Capt.  G.  (Bronzing  under  the  tan  and  bring- 
ing down  his  hand  very  quickly.)  Eh!  Wha-at! 
Oh,  yes!  Ha!  Ha!  (Laughs  uneasily.)  (Aside.) 
Well,  of  all  the  dashed  cheek!  I  never  had  a 
woman  say  that  to  me  yet.  She  must  be  a  cool 
hand  or  else  —  Ah!  that  nursery-tea! 

Voice  FROM  THE  Unknown.  Tchk!  Tchk!  Tchk! 

Capt.  G.     Good  gracious!    What's  that? 

Miss  T.  The  dog,  I  think.  (Aside.)  Emma 
has  been  listening,  and  I'll  never  forgive  her! 

Capt.  G.  (Aside.)  They  don't  keep  dogs  here. 
(Aloud.)    'Didn't  sound  like  a  dog,  did  it  ? 

Miss  T.    Then  it  must  have  been  the  cat.    Let's 
go  into  the  veranda.    What  a  lovely  evening  it  is ! 
Steps  into  veranda  and  looks  out  across  the 
hills  into  sunset.     The  Captain  follows. 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  19 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Superb  eyes!  I  wonder 
that  I  never  noticed  them  before!  {Aloud.') 
There's  going  to  be  a  dance  at  Viceregal  Lodge 
on  Wednesday.     Can  you  spare  me  one  ? 

Miss  T.  {Shortly.)  No!  I  don't  want  any  of 
your  charity-dances.  You  only  ask  me  because 
Mamma  told  you  to.  I  hop  and  I  bump.  You 
kno'U)  I  do ! 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  That's  true,  but  little  girls 
shouldn't  understand  these  things.  {Aloud.) 
No,  on  my  word,  I  don't.  You  dance  beauti- 
fully. 

Miss  T.  Then  why  do  you  always  stand  out 
after  half  a  dozen  turns  }  I  thought  officers  in 
the  Army  didn't  tell  fibs. 

Capt.  G.  It  wasn't  a  fib,  believe  me.  I  really 
do  want  the  pleasure  of  a  dance  with  you. 

Miss  T.  {Wickedly.)  'Why?  Won't  Mamma 
dance  with  you  any  more  } 

Capt.  G.  {More  earnestly  than  the  necessity 
demands.)  I  wasn't  thinking  of  your  Mother. 
{Aside.)    You  little  vixen! 

Miss  T.  {Still  looking  out  of  the  -u^indow. )  Eh  } 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing else. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Well!  I  wonder  what  she'll 
say  next.  I've  never  known  a  woman  treat  me 
like  this  before.  I  might  be— Dash  it,  I  might  be 
an  Infantry  subaltern !    {Aloud.)   Oh,  please  don't 


20 .  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

trouble.  I'm  not  worth  thinking  about.  Isn't 
your  Mother  ready  yet } 

Miss  T.  I  should  think  so;  but  promise  me, 
Captain  Gadsby,  you  won't  take  poor  dear 
Mamma  twice  round  Jakko  any  more.  It  tires 
her  so. 

Capt.  G.     She  says  that  no  exercise  tires  her. 

Miss  T.  Yes,  but  she  suffers  afterward.  You 
don't  know  what  rheumatism  is,  and  you  oughtn't 
to  keep  her  out  so  late,  when  it  gets  chill  in  the 
evenings. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.')  Rheumatism.  I  thought 
she  came  off  her  horse  rather  in  a  bunch.  Whew ! 
One  lives  and  learns.  {Aloud.)  I'm  sorry  to 
hear  that.     She  hasn't  mentioned  it  to  me. 

Miss  T.  {Flurried.)  Of  course  not!  Poor 
dear  Mamma  never  would.  And  you  mustn't 
say  that  1  told  you  either.  Promise  me  that  you 
won't.  Oh,  Captain  Gadsby,  promise  me  you 
won't! 

Capt.  G.  1  am  dumb,  or — I  shall  be  as  soon 
as  you've  given  me  that  dance,  and  another — if 
you  can  trouble  yourself  to  think  about  me  for  a 
minute. 

Miss  T.  But  you  won't  like  it  one  little  bit. 
You'll  be  awfully  sorry  afterward. 

Capt.  G.  I  shall  like  it  above  all  things,  and  I 
shall  only  be  sorry  that  I  didn't  get  more.  {Aside.) 
Now  what  in  the  world  am  I  saying  ? 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  2\ 

Miss  T.  Very  well.  You  will  have  only  your- 
self to  thank  if  your  toes  are  trodden  on.  Shall 
we  say  Seven  ? 

Capt.  G.  And  Eleven.  {Aside.)  She  can't 
be  more  than  eight  stone,  but,  even  then,  it's  an 
absurdly  small  foot.  {Looks  at  his  own  riding 
boots.) 

Miss  T.  They're  beautifully  shiny.  I  can  al- 
most see  my  face  in  them. 

Capt.  G.  I  was  thinking  whether  I  should 
have  to  go  on  crutches  for  the  rest  of  my  life  if 
you  trod  on  my  toes. 

Miss  T.  Very  likely.  Why  not  change  Eleven 
for  a  square  } 

Capt.  G.  No,  please!  I  want  them  both 
waltzes.     Won't  you  write  them  down  ? 

Miss  T.  /  don't  get  so  many  dances  that  I 
shall  confuse  them.     Yoii  will  be  the  offender. 

Capt.  G.  Wait  and  see!  (Aside.)  She  doesn't 
dance  perfectly,  perhaps,  but  — 

Miss  T.  Your  tea  must  have  got  cold  by  this 
time.     Won't  you  have  another  cup  ? 

Capt.  G.  No,  thanks.  Don't  you  think  it's 
pleasanter  out  in  the  veranda  ?  {Aside.)  1  never 
saw  hair  take  that  color  in  the  sunshine  before. 
(Aloud.)     It's  like  one  of  Dicksee's  pictures. 

Miss  T.  Yes!  It's  a  wonderful  sunset,  isn't 
it?  (Bluntly.)  But  what  do  you  know  about 
Dicksee's  pictures  ? 


22  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

Capt.  G.  I  go  Home  occasionally.  And  I 
used  to  know  the  Galleries.  (Nervously.)  You 
mustn't  think  me  only  a  Philistine  with — a  mous- 
tache. 

Miss  T.  Don't!  P/^^5^  don't!  I'm  50  sorry  for 
what  I  said  then.  I  was  horribly  rude.  It  slipped 
out  before  I  thought.  Don't  you  know  the  temp- 
tation to  say  frightful  and  shocking  things  just 
for  the  mere  sake  of  saying  themi }  I'm  afraid  I 
gave  way  to  it. 

Capt.  G.  (IVatching  the  girl  as  she  flushes.') 
I  think  I  know  the  feeling.  It  would  be  terrible 
if  we  all  yielded  to  it,  wouldn't  it }  For  instance, 
I  might  say  — 

Poor  Dear  Mamma.  (Entering,  habited,  hatted, 
"and  booted.)  Ah,  Captain  Gadsby.^  'Sorry  to 
keep  you  waiting.  'Hope  you  haven't  been  bored. 
'My  little  girl  been  talking  to  you  ? 

Miss  T.  (Aside.)  I'm  not  sorry  I  spoke  about 
the  rheumatism.  I'm  not!  I'm  not!  I  only 
wish  I'd  mentioned  the  corns  too. 

Capt.  G.  (Aside.)  What  a  shame!  I  won- 
der how  old  she  is.  It  never  occurred  to  me  be- 
fore. (Aloud.)  We've  been  discussing  "Shakes- 
peare and  the  musical  glasses  "  in  the  veranda. 

Miss  T.  (Aside.)  Nice  man!  He  knows  that 
quotation.  He  isn't  a  Philistine  with  a  moustache. 
(Aloud.)  Good-bye,  Captain  Gadsby.  (Aside.) 
What  a  huge  hand  and  n-hat  a  squeeze!     I  don't 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  2^ 

suppose  he  meant  it,  but  he  has  driven  the  rings 
into  my  fingers. 

Poor  Dear  Mamma.  Has  Vermillion  come 
round  yet.^  Oh,  yes!  Captain  Gadsby,  don't 
you  think  that  the  saddle  is  too  far  forward.^ 
{They  pass  into  the  front  veranda.) 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  How  the  dickens  should 
I  know  what  she  prefers  ?  She  told  me  that  she 
doted  on  horses.     {Aloud.)    I  think  it  is. 

Miss  T.  {Coining  out  into  front  veranda.) 
Oh!  Bad  Buldoo!  I  must  speak  to  him  for  this. 
He  has  taken  up  the  curb  two  links,  and  Vermil- 
lion hates  that.  {Passes  out  and  to  horse's 
head.) 

Capt.  G.     Let  me  do  it! 

Miss  T.  No,  Vermillion  understands  me. 
Don't  you,  old  man  ?  {Looses  curb-chain  skil- 
fully, and  pats  horse  on  nose  and  throttle.)  Poor 
Vermillion!  Did  they  want  to  cut  his  chin  off  .^ 
There! 

Captain  Gadsby  -watches  the  interlude  with 
undisguised  admiration. 

Poor  Dear  Mamma.  {Tartly  to  U\ssT.)  You've 
forgotten  your  guest,  I  think,  dear. 

Miss  T.  Good  gracious!  So  I  have!  Good- 
bye.    {Retreats  indoors  hastily.) 

Poor  Dear  Mamma.  (Bunching  reins  in  fingers 
hampered  by  too  tight  gauntlets.)  Captain 
Gadsby! 


24  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

Captain  Gadsby  stoops  and  makes  the  foot- 
rest.     Poor  Dear  Mamma  blunders,  halts 
too  long,  and  breaks  through  it. 
Capt.  G.     {Aside.)    Can't  hold  up  eleven  stone 
forever.     It's    all    your    rheumatism.     {Aloud.) 
Can't  imagine  why  I  was  so  clumsy.     {Aside.) 
Now  Little  Featherweight  would  have  gone  up 
like  a  bird. 

They  ride  out  of  the  garden.     The  Captain 
falls  back. 
Capt.  G.     {Aside.)    How  that  habit  catches 
her  under  the  arms!     Ugh! 

Poor  Dear  Mamma.  {With  the  worn  smile  of 
sixteen  seasons,  the  worse  for  exchange.)  You're 
dull  this  afternoon,  Captain  Gadsby. 

Capt.  G.     {Spurring  up  wearily.)    Why  did 
you  keep  me  waiting  so  long  } 
Et  ccetera,  et  ccetera,  et  ccetera, 

(an  interval  of  three  weeks.) 

Gilded  Youth.     {Sitting  on  railings  opposite 
Town  Hall.)    Hullo,  Gaddy!     'Been  trotting  out 
the  Gorgonzola!    We  all  thought  it  was  the  Gor- 
gon you're  mashing. 
Capt.   G.     {With  withering  emphasis.)    You 

young  cub!     What  the  does  it  matter  to 

you  ? 

Proceeds  to  read  Gilded  Youth  a  lecture 
on    discretion    and  deportment,   which 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  25 

crumbles  latter  like  a  Chinese  Lantern, 
Departs  fuming. 

(further  interval  of  five  weeks.) 

Scene. — Exterior  of  New  Simla  Library  on  a 
foggy  evening.     Miss  Threegan  and  Miss  Deer- 
court  meet  among  the  'rickshaws.     Miss  T.  is 
carrying  a  bundle  of  books  under  her  left  arm. 
Miss  D.     (Level  intonation.)    Well  ? 
Miss  T.     (Ascending  intonation.)    Well  .^ 
Miss  D.     (Capturing    her  friend's    left  arm, 
taking  away  all  the  books,  placing  books  in  kick- 
shaw, returning  to  arm,  securing  hand  by  third 
finger  and  investigating.)    Well!    You  bad  girl! 
And  you  never  told  me. 

Miss  T.  (Demurely.)  He — he — he  only  spoke 
yesterday  afternoon. 

Miss  D.  Bless  you,  dear!  And  I'm  to  be 
bridesmaid,  aren't  I }  You  k7iow  you  promised 
ever  so  long  ago. 

Miss  T.     Of  course.     I'll  tell  you  all  about  it 
to-morrow.     (Gets  into' rickshaw.)    O  Emma! 
Miss  D.     (IVith  intense  interest.)    Yes,  dear? 
Miss  T.     (Piano.)    It's  quite  true— about— the 

Miss  D.     What  tgg  ? 

Miss  T.  (Pianissimo  prestissimo.)  The  egg 
without  the  salt.  (Forte.)  Chalo  ghar  kojaldi, 
jhampani!    (Go  home,  j'hampani.) 


THE  WORLD  WITHOUT 


THE  WORLD  WITHOUT 

Certain  people  of  importance. 

Scene. — Smoking-room  of  the  Degchi  Club, 
Time,  10:30  p.  m.  of  a  stuffy  night  in  the  Rains. 
Four  men  dispersed  in  picturesque  attitudes 
and  easy-chairs.  To  these  enter  Blayne  of  the 
Irregular  Moguls,  in  evening  dress. 

Blayne.  Phew!  The  Judge  ought  to  be 
hanged  in  his  own  store-godown.  Hi,  hhitmat- 
gar  !  Poora  whiskey-peg,  to  take  the  taste  out 
of  my  mouth. 

CuRTiss.  {Royal  Artillery.)  That's  it,  is  it? 
What  the  deuce  made  you  dine  at  the  Judge's  } 
You  know  his  bandobust. 

Blayne.  'Thought  it  couldn't  be  worse  than 
the  Club,  but  I'll  swear  he  buys  ullaged  liquor 
and  doctors  it  with  gin  and  ink  (looking  round 
the  room.)     Is  this  all  of  you  to-night } 

DooNE.  (P.IV.D.)  Anthony  was  called  out 
at  dinner.     Mingle  had  a  pain  in  his  tummy. 

CuRTiss.  Miggy  dies  of  cholera  once  a  week  in 
the  Rains,  and  gets  drunk  on  chlorodyne  in  be- 
tween. 'Good  little  chap,  though.  Any  one  at 
the  Judge's,  Blayne  ? 

29 


30  The   World  Without 

Blayne.  Cockley  and  his  mensahib  looking 
awfully  white  and  fagged.  'Female  girl — couldn't 
catch  the  name — on  her  way  to  the  Hills,  under 
the  Cockleys'  charge — the  Judge,  and  Markyn 
fresh  from  Simla — disgustingly  fit. 

CuRTiss.  Good  Lord,  how  truly  magnificent! 
Was  there  enough  ice  ?  When  I  mangled  gar- 
bage there  I  got  one  whole  lump — nearly  as  big 
as  a  walnut.  What  had  Markyn  to  say  for  him- 
self? 

Blayne.  'Seems  that  every  one  is  having  a 
fairly  good  time  up  there  in  spite  of  the  rain.  By 
Jove,  that  reminds  me!  I  know  I  hadn't  come 
across  just  for  the  pleasure  of  your  society. 
News!     Great  news!     Markyn  told  me. 

DooNE.     Who's  dead  now  } 

Blayne.  No  one  that  I  know  of;  but  Gaddy's 
hooked  at  last! 

Dropping  Chorus.  How  much?  The  Devil! 
Markyn  was  pulling  your  leg.     Not  Gaddy! 

Blayne.  (Humming.)  "Yea,  verily,  verily, 
verily!  Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  thee."  Theo- 
dore, the  gift  o'  God!  Our  Phillup!  It's  been 
given  out  up  above. 

Mackesy.  (Barrister-at-Lazi\)  Huh!  Women 
will  give  out  anything.  What  does  accused 
say? 

Blayne.  Markyn  told  me  that  he  congratu- 
lated him   warily — one  hand  held  out,   fother 


The    IVorld   V/ithout  31 

ready  to  guard.  Gaddy  turned  pink  and  said  it 
was  so. 

CuRTiss.  Poor  old  Gaddy!  They  all  do  it. 
Who's  she  ?    Let's  hear  the  details. 

Blayne.  She's  a  girl — daughter  of  a  Colonel 
Somebody. 

DooNE.  Simla's  stiff  with  Colonels'  daughters. 
Be  more  explicit. 

Blayne.  Wait  a  shake.  What  was  her  name  ? 
Three — something.     Three  — 

CuRTiss.  Stars,  perhaps.  Gaddy  knows  that 
brand. 

Blayne.     Threegan — Minnie  Threegan. 

Mackesy.  Threegan!  Isn't  she  a  little  bit  of 
a  girl  with  red  hair  ? 

Blayne.     'Bout  that — from  what  Markyn  said. 

Mackesy.  Then  I've  met  her.  She  was  at 
Lucknow  last  season.  'Owned  a  permanently 
juvenile  Mamma,  and  danced  damnably.  I  say, 
Jervoise,  you  knew  the  Threegans,  didn't  you  ? 

Jervoise.  (Civilian  of  twenty-five  years'  service, 
waking  up  from  his  do^e.)  Eh  ?  What's  that  ? 
Knew  who  ?  How  ?  I  thought  I  was  at  Home, 
confound  you! 

Mackesy.  The  Threegan  girl's  engaged,  so 
Blayne  says. 

Jervoise.  (Slowly.)  Engaged — engaged!  Bless 
my  soul!  I'm  getting  an  old  man!  Little  Minnie 
Threegan  engaged.     It  was  only  the  other  day  I 


^2  The   World   Without 

went  home  with  them  in  the  Stirat— no,  the 
Massilia — and  she  was  crawling  about  on  her 
hands  and  knees  among  the  ayahs.  'Used  to  call 
me  the  "  Tick  Tack  Sahib''  because  I  showed 
her  my  watch.  And  that  was  in  Sixty-Seven — 
no,  Seventy.  Good  God,  how  time  flies!  I'm 
an  old  man.  I  remember  when  Threegan  mar- 
ried Miss  Derwent — daughter  of  old  Hooky  Der- 
went — but  that  was  before  your  time.  And  so 
the  little  baby's  engaged  to  have  a  little  baby  of 
her  own!    Who's  the  other  fool  ? 

Mackesy.     Gadsby  of  the  Pink  Hussars. 

Jervoise.  'Never  met  him.  Threegan  lived  in 
debt,  married  in  debt,  and'll  die  in  debt.  'Must 
be  glad  to  get  the  girl  off  his  hands. 

Blayne.  Gaddy  has  money — lucky  devil. 
Place  at  Home,  too. 

DooNE.  He  comes  of  first-class  stock.  'Can't 
quite  understand  his  being  caught  by  a  Colonel's 
daughter,  and  {looking  cautiously  round  room) 
Black  Infantry  at  that]  No  offence  to  you, 
Blayne. 

Blayne.     {Stiffly.)    Not  much,  tha-anks. 

CuRTiss.  {Quoting  motto  of  Irregular  Moguls.) 
"'We  are  what  we  are,"  eh,  old  man?  But 
Gaddy  was  such  a  superior  animal  as  a  rule. 
Why  didn't  he  go  Home  and  pick  his  wife 
there } 

Mackesy.     They  are  all  alike  when  they  come 


The    JVorld   ]Vithout  33 

to  the  turn  into  the  straight.  About  thirty  a  man 
begins  to  get  sick  of  living  alone  — 

CuRTiss.  And  of  the  eternal  muttony-chap  in 
the  morning. 

DooNE.  It's  a  dead  goat  as  a  rule,  but  go  on, 
Mackesy. 

Mackesy.  If  a  man's  once  taken  that  way 
nothing  will  hold  him.  Do  you  remember  Benoit 
of  your  service,  Doone  ?  They  transferred  him 
to  Tharanda  when  his  time  came,  and  he  married 
a  platelayer's  daughter,  or  something  of  that 
kind.     She  was  the  only  female  about  the  place. 

Doone.  Yes,  poor  brute.  That  smashed 
Benoit's  chances  of  promotion  altogether.  Mrs. 
Benoit  used  to  ask:  **  Was  you  goin'  to  the  dance 
this  evenin'  .^" 

CuRTiss.  Hang  it  all!  Gaddy  hasn't  married 
beneath  him.  There's  no  tar-brush  in  the  family, 
I  suppose. 

Jervoise.  Tar-brush!  Not  an  anna.  You 
young  fellows  talk  as  though  the  man  was  do- 
ing the  girl  an  honor  in  marrying  her.  You're 
all  too  conceited — nothing's  good  enough  for 
you. 

Blayne.  Not  even  an  empty  Club,  a  dam'  bad 
dinner  at  the  Judge's,  and  a  Station  as  sickly  as  a 
hospital.  You're  quite  right.  We're  a  set  of 
Sybarites. 

Doone.     Luxurious  dogs,  wallowing  in  — 


34  The  World  Without 

CuRTiss.  Prickly  heat  between  the  shoulders. 
I'm  covered  with  it.  Let's  hope  Beora  will  be 
cooler. 

Blayne.  Whew!  Are jt'oz/ ordered  into  camp, 
too  ?    I  thought  the  Gunners  had  a  clean  sheet. 

CuRTiss.  No,  worse  luck.  Two  cases  yester- 
day— one  died — and  if  we  have  a  third,  out  we 
go.     Is  there  any  shooting  at  Beora,  Doone? 

DooNE.  The  country's  under  water,  except 
the  patch  by  the  Grand  Trunk  Road.  I  was 
there  yesterday,  looking  at  a  bund,  and  came 
across  four  poor  devils  in  their  last  stage.  It's 
rather  bad  from  here  to  Kuchara. 

CuRTiss.  Then  we're  pretty  certain  to  have  a 
heavy  go  of  it.  Heigho!  I  shouldn't  mind 
changing  places  with  Gaddy  for  a  while.  'Sport 
with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade  of  the  Town  Hall, 
and  all  that.  Oh,  why  doesn't  somebody  come 
and  marry  me,  instead  of  letting  me  go  into 
cholera-camp  ? 

Mackesy.     Ask  the  Committee. 

CuRTiss.  You  ruffian!  You'll  stand  me  an- 
other peg  for  that.  Blayne,  what  will  you  take  } 
Mackesy  is  fine  on  moral  grounds.  Doone,  have 
you  any  preference  } 

Doone.  Small  glass  Kiimmel,  please.  Excel- 
lent carminative,  these  days.  Anthony  told  me 
so. 

Mackesy.     (Stgfimg  voucher  for  four  drinks.) 


The   World  Without  35 

Most  unfair  punishment.  I  only  thought  of 
Curtiss  as  Actaeon  being  chivied  round  the  billiard 
tables  by  the  nymphs  of  Diana. 

Blayne.  Curtiss  would  have  to  import  his 
nymphs  by  train.  Mrs.  Cockley's  the  only 
woman  in  the  Station.  She  won't  leave  Cockley, 
and  he's  doing  his  best  to  get  her  to  go. 

Curtiss.  Good,  indeed!  Here's  Mrs.  Cock- 
ley's  health.  To  the  only  wife  in  the  Station  and 
a  damned  brave  woman! 

Omnes.    {Drinking.)   A  damned  brave  woman ! 

Blayne.  I  suppose  Gaddy  will  bring  his  wife 
here  at  the  end  of  the  cold  weather.  They  are 
going  to  be  married  almost  immediately,  I  be- 
lieve. 

Curtiss.  Gaddy  may  thank  his  luck  that  the 
Pink  Hussars  are  all  detachment  and  no  head- 
quarters this  hot  weather,  or  he'd  be  torn  from 
the  arms  of  his  love  as  sure  as  death.  Have  you 
ever  noticed  the  thorough-minded  way  British 
Cavalry  take  to  cholera  ?  Ifs  because  they  are 
so  expensive.  If  the  Pinks  had  stood  fast  here, 
they  would  have  been  out  in  camp  a  month  ago. 
Yes,  I  should  decidedly  like  to  be  Gaddy. 

Mackesy.  He'll  go  Home  after  he's  married, 
and  send  in  his  papers — see  if  he  doesn't. 

Blayne.  Why  shouldn't  he?  Hasn't  he 
money  ?  Would  any  one  of  us  be  here  if  we 
weren't  paupers  ? 


36  The   World   Without 

DooNE.  Poor  old  pauper!  What  has  become 
of  the  six  hundred  you  rooked  from  our  table  last 
month  ? 

Blayne.  It  took  unto  itself  wings.  I  think  an 
enterprising  tradesman  got  some  of  it,  and  a 
5/^ rq^  gobbled  the  rest — or  else  I  spent  it. 

CuRTiss.  Gaddy  never  had  dealings  with  a 
shroff  in  his  life. 

DooNE.  Virtuous  Gaddy !  If  /  had  three  thou- 
sand a  month,  paid  from  England,  I  don't  think 
I'd  deal  with  a  shroff  either. 

Mackesy.  (Yawning.)  Oh,  it's  a  sweet  life! 
I  wonder  whether  matrimony  would  make  it 
sweeter. 

CuRTiss.  Ask  Cockley — with  his  wife  dying 
by  inches! 

Blayne.  Go  home  and  get  a  fool  of  a  girl  to 
come  out  to — what  is  it  Thackeray  says  ? — "  the 
splendid  palace  of  an  Indian  pro-consul.'' 

Doone.  Which  reminds  me.  My  quarters 
leak  like  a  sieve.  I  had  fever  last  night  from 
sleeping  in  a  swamp.  And  the  worst  of  it  is, 
one  can't  do  anything  to  a  roof  till  the  Rains  are 
over. 

CuRTiss.  What's  wrong  with  you.^  Yoii 
haven't  eighty  rotting  Tommies  to  take  into  a 
running  stream. 

Doone.  No:  but  I'm  mixed  boils  and  bad  lan- 
guage.    I'm  a  regular  Job  all  over  my  body.     It's 


The    World   Without  37 

sheer  poverty  of  blood,  and  I  don't  see  any 
chance  of  getting  richer — either  way. 

Blayne.     Can't  you  take  leave  ? 

DooNE.  That's  the  pull  you  Army  men  have 
over  us.  Ten  days  are  nothing  in  your  sight,  rm 
so  important  that  Government  can't  fmd  a  substi- 
tute if  I  go  away.  Ye-es,  I'd  like  to  be  Gaddy, 
whoever  his  wife  may  be. 

CuRTiss.  You've  passed  the  turn  of  life  that 
Mackesy  was  speaking  of. 

DooNE.  Indeed  I  have,  but  I  never  yet  had  the 
brutality  to  ask  a  woman  to  share  my  life  out 
here. 

Blayne.  On  my  soul  I  believe  you're  right. 
I'm  thinking  of  Mrs.  Cockley.  The  woman's  an 
absolute  wreck. 

DooNE.  Exactly.  Because  she  stays  down 
here.  The  only  way  to  keep  her  fit  would  be  to 
send  her  to  the  Hills  for  eight  months — and  the 
same  with  any  woman.  I  fancy  I  see  myself 
taking  a  wife  on  those  terms. 

Mackesy.  With  the  rupee  at  one  and  sixpence. 
The  little  Doones  would  be  little  Dehra  Doones, 
with  a  fine  Mussoorie  chi-chi  anent  to  bring 
home  for  the  holidays. 

CuRTiss.  And  a  pair  of  be-ewtiful  sambhur- 
horns  for  Doone  to  wear,  free  of  expense,  pre- 
sented by  — 

Doone.     Yes,  it's  an  enchanting  prospect.    By 


38  The    World   Without 

the  way,  the  rupee  hasn't  done  falling  yet.  The 
time  will  come  when  we  shall  think  ourselves 
lucky  if  we  only  lose  half  our  pay. 

CuRTiss.  Surely  a  third's  loss  enough.  Who 
gains  by  the  arrangement  ?  That's  what  I  want 
to  know. 

Blayne.  The  Silver  Question!  I'm  going  to 
bed  if  you  begin  squabbling.  Thank  Goodness, 
here's  Anthony — looking  like  a  ghost. 

Enter  Anthony,  Indian  Medical  Staff,  very 
white  and  tired. 

Anthony.  'Evening,  Blayne.  It's  raining  in 
sheets.  Whiskey  peg  lao,  khitmatgar.  The 
roads  are  something  ghastly. 

CuRTiss.     How's  Mingle  ? 

Anthony.  Very  bad,  and  more  frightened.  I 
handed  him  over  to  Fewton.  Mingle  might  just 
as  well  have  called  him  in  the  first  place,  instead 
of  bothering  me. 

Blayne.  He's  a  nervous  little  chap.  What 
has  he  got,  this  time  ? 

Anthony.  'Can't  quite  say.  A  very  bad 
tummy  and  a  blue  funk  so  far.  He  asked  me  at 
once  if  it  was  cholera,  and  I  told  him  not  to  be  a 
fool.     That  soothed  him. 

CuRTiss.  Poor  devil !  The  funk  does  half  the 
business  in  a  man  of  that  build. 

Anthony.  (^Lighting  a  cheroot.)  I  firmly  be- 
lieve the  funk  will  kill  him  if  he  stays  down. 


The   World   Without  39 

You  know  the  amount  of  trouble  he's  been  giving 
Fewton  for  the  last  three  weeks.  He's  doing  his 
very  best  to  frighten  himself  into  the  grave. 

General  Chorus.  Poor  little  devil!  Why 
doesn't  he  get  away  ? 

Anthony.  'Can't.  He  has  his  leave  all  right, 
but  he's  so  dipped  he  can't  take  it,  and  1  don't 
think  his  name  on  paper  would  raise  four  annas. 
That's  in  confidence,  though. 

Mackesy.     All  the  Station  knows  it. 

Anthony.  ''  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  die  here, " 
he  said,  squirming  all  across  the  bed.  He's  quite 
made  up  his  mind  to  Kingdom  Come.  And  I 
know  he  has  nothing  more  than  a  wet-weather 
tummy  if  he  could  only  keep  a  hand  on  himself. 

Blayne.  That's  bad.  That's  very  bad.  Poor 
little  Miggy.     Good  little  chap,  too.     I  say  — 

Anthony.     What  do  you  say  ? 

Blayne.  Well,  look  here — anyhow.  If  it's 
like  that — as  you  say — I  say  fifty. 

CuRTiss.     1  say  fifty. 

Mackesy.     I  go  twenty  better. 

DooNE.  Bloated  Croesus  of  the  Bar!  I  say 
fifty.  Jervoise,  what  do  you  say?  Hi!  Wake 
up! 

Jervoise.     Eh  ?    Whaf  s  that  ?    What's  that } 

CuRTiss.  We  want  a  hundred  rupees  from 
you.  You're  a  bachelor  drawing  a  gigantic  in- 
come, and  there's  a  man  in  a  hole. 


40  The   World  Without 

Jervoise.     What  man  ?    Any  one  dead  ? 

Blayne.  No,  but  he'll  die  if  you  don't  give  the 
hundred.  Here!  Here's  a  peg-voucher.  You 
can  see  what  we've  signed  for,  and  Anthony's 
man  will  come  round  to-morrow  to  collect  it. 
So  there  will  be  no  trouble. 

Jervoise.  (^Signing.')  One  hundred,  E.  M.  J. 
There  you  are  (^feebly).  It  isn't  one  of  your 
jokes,  is  it } 

Blayne.  No,  it  really  is  wanted.  Anthony, 
you  were  the  biggest  poker-winner  last  week, 
and  you've  defrauded  the  tax-collector  too  long. 
Sign! 

Anthony.  Let's  see.  Three  fifties  and  a 
seventy — two  twenty — three  twenty — say  four 
hundred  and  twenty.  That'll  give  him  a  month 
clear  at  the  Hills.  Many  thanks,  you  men.  I'll 
send  round  the  chaprassi  to-morrow. 

CuRTiss.  You  must  engineer  his  taking  the 
stuff,  and  of  course  you  mustn't  — 

Anthony.  Of  course.  It  would  never  do. 
He'd  weep  with  gratitude  over  his  evening 
drink. 

Blayne.  That's  just  what  he  would  do,  damn 
him.  Oh!  I  say,  Anthony,  you  pretend  to 
know  everything.  Have  you  heard  about 
Gaddy  ? 

Anthony.     No.     Divorce  Court  at  last } 

Blayne.     Worse.     He's  engaged! 


The    World   Without  .  41 

Anthony.     How  much  ?    He  can't  be! 

Blayne.  He  is.  He's  going  to  be  married  in  a 
few  weeks.  Markyn  told  me  at  the  Judge's  this 
evening.     It's  pukka. 

Anthony.  You  don't  say  so?  Holy  Moses! 
There'll  be  a  shine  in  the  tents  of  Kedar. 

CuRTiss.     'Regiment  cut  up  rough,  think  you.^ 

Anthony.  'Don't  know  anything  about  the 
Regiment. 

Mackesy.     It  is  bigamy,  then  ? 

Anthony.  Maybe.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  men  have  forgotten,  or  is  there  more  charity 
in  the  world  than  I  thought  ? 

DooNE.  You  don't  look  pretty  when  you  are 
trying  to  keep  a  secret.     You  bloat.     Explain. 

Anthony.     Mrs.  Herriott! 

Blayne.  {After  a  long  pause,  to  the  room 
generally.)  It's  my  notion  that  we  are  a  set  of 
fools. 

Mackesy.  Nonsense.  That  business  was 
knocked  on  the  head  last  season.  'Why,  young 
Mallard  — 

Anthony.  Mallard  was  a  candlestick,  paraded 
as  such.  Think  awhile.  Recollect  last  season 
and  the  talk  then.  Mallard  or  no  Mallard,  did 
Gaddy  ever  talk  to  any  other  woman  ? 

CuRTiss.  There's  something  in  that.  It  was 
slightly  noticeable  now  you  come  to  mention  it. 
But  she's  at  Naini  Tal  and  he's  at  Simla. 


42  The   World   Without 

Anthony.  He  had  to  go  to  Simla  to  look  after 
a  globe-trotter  relative  of  his — a  person  with  a 
title.     Uncle  or  aunt. 

Blayne.  And  there  he  got  engaged.  No  law 
prevents  a  man  growing  tired  of  a  woman. 

Anthony.  Except  that  he  mustn't  do  it  till 
the  woman  is  tired  of  him.  And  the  Herriott 
woman  was  not  that. 

CuRTiss.  She  may  be  now.  Two  months  of 
Naini  Tal  works  wonders. 

DooNE.  Curious  thing  how  some  women 
carry  a  Fate  with  them.  There  was  a  Mrs. 
Deegie  in  the  Central  Provinces  whose  men  in- 
variably fell  away  and  got  married.  It  became  a 
regular  proverb  with  us  when  I  was  down  there. 
I  remember  three  men  desperately  devoted  to 
her,  and  they  all,  one  after  another,  took  wives. 

CuRTiss.  That's  odd.  Now  I  should  have 
thought  that  Mrs.  Deegie's  influence  would  have 
led  them  to  take  other  men's  wives.  It  ought 
to  have  made  them  afraid  of  the  judgment  of 
Providence. 

Anthony.  Mrs.  Herriott  will  make  Gaddy 
afraid  of  something  more  than  the  judgment  of 
Providence,  I  fancy. 

Blayne.  Supposing  things  are  as  you  say, 
he'll  be  a  fool  to  face  her.  He'll  sit  tight  at 
Simla. 

Anthony.     'Shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  he 


The   World   Without  43 

went  off  to  Naini  to  explain.  He's  an  unaccount- 
able sort  of  man,  and  she's  likely  to  be  a  more 
than  unaccountable  woman. 

DooNE.  'What  makes  you  take  her  character 
away  so  confidently  } 

Anthony.  Primiun  tempus.  Gaddy  was  her 
first,  and  a  woman  doesn't  allow  her  first  man  to 
drop  away  without  expostulation.  She  justifies 
the  first  transfer  of  affection  to  herself  by  swear- 
ing that  it  is  forever  and  ever.     Consequently  — 

Blayne.  Consequently,  we  are  sitting  here  till 
past  one  o'clock,  talking  scandal  like  a  set  of 
Station  cats.  Anthony,  if s  all  your  fault.  We 
were  perfectly  respectable  till  you  came  in.  Go 
to  bed.     I'm  off.     Good-night  all. 

CuRTiss.  Past  one!  It's  past  two,  by  Jove, 
and  here's  the  khit  coming  for  the  late  charge. 
Just  Heavens!  One,  two,  three,  four,  five  rupees 
to  pay  for  the  pleasure  of  saying  that  a  poor 
little  beast  of  a  woman  is  no  better  than  she 
should  be.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself.  Go  to  bed, 
you  slanderous  villains,  and  if  I'm  sent  to  Beora 
to-morrow,  be  prepared  to  hear  I'm  dead  before 
paying  my  card  account! 


THE  TENTS  OF  KEDAR 


THE  TENTS  OF  KEDAR 

Only  why  should  it  be  with  pain  at  all 
Why  must  I  'fwixt  the  leaves  of  coronal 

Put  any  kiss  of  pardon  on  thy  brow  ? 
Why  should  the  other  women  know  so  much, 
And  talk  together : — Such  the  look  and  such 

The  smile  he  used  to  love  with,  then  as  now. 
Any  Wife  to  any  Husband. 

Scene. — A  Nai7ii  Tal  dinner  for  thirty-four. 
Plate,  wines,  crockery,  and  khitmatgars  care- 
fully calculated  to  scale  of  Rs.  6000  per  men- 
sem, less  Exchange.  Table  split  lengthways  by 
bank  of  flowers. 

Mrs.  Herriott.  {After  conversation  has  risen 
to  proper  pitch.)  Ah!  'Didn't  see  you  in  the 
crush  in  the  drawing-room.  {Sotto  voce.)  Where 
have  you  been  all  this  while,  Pip  ? 

Captain  Gadsby.  ( Turning  from  regularly  or- 
dained dinner  partner  and  settling  hock  glasses.) 
Good  evening.  (Sotto  voce.)  Not  quite  so  loud 
another  time.  You've  no  notion  how  your  voice 
carries.  (Aside.)  So  much  for  shirking  the 
written  explanation.  It'll  have  to  be  a  verbal 
one  now.  Sweet  prospect!  How  on  earth  am 
I  to  tell  her  that  I  am  a  respectable,  engaged 
member  of  society  and  it's  all  over  between  us  ? 
47 


48  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

Mrs.  H.  I've  a  heavy  score  against  you. 
Where  were  you  at  the  Monday  Pop  ?  Where 
were  you  on  Tuesday  ?  Where  were  you  at  the 
Lamonts'  tennis  ?    I  was  looking  everywhere. 

Capt.  G.  For  me!  Oh,  I  was  alive  some- 
where, I  suppose.  {Aside.)  It's  for  Minnie's 
sake,  but  it's  going  to  be  dashed  unpleasant. 

Mrs.  H.  Have  I  done  anything  to  offend  you  ? 
I  never  meant  it  if  I  have.  I  couldn't  help  going 
for  a  ride  with  the  Vaynor  man.  It  was  prom- 
ised a  week  before  you  came  up. 

Capt.  G.     I  didn't  know  — 

Mrs.  H.     It  really  -was. 

Capt.  G.     Anything  about  it,  I  mean. 

Mrs.  H.  What  has  upset  you  to-day.?  All 
these  days  }  You  haven't  been  near  me  for  four 
whole  days — nearly  one  hundred  hours.  Was  it 
kind  of  you,  Pip  ?  And  I've  been  looking  for- 
ward so  much  to  your  coming. 

Capt.  G.     Have  you .? 

Mrs.  H.  You  know  I  have!  I've  been  as  fool- 
ish as  a  schoolgirl  about  it.  I  made  a  little  cal- 
endar and  put  it  in  my  card-case,  and  every  time 
the  twelve  o'clock  gun  went  off  I  scratched  out  a 
square  and  said:  "That  brings  me  nearer  to  Pip. 
My  Pip!" 

Capt.  G.  (IVith  an  uneasy  laugh.)  What 
will  Mackler  think  if  you  neglect  him  so  ? 

Mrs.  H.     And  it  hasn't  brought  you  nearer. 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  49 

You  seem  farther  away  than  ever.  Are  you 
sulking  about  something  ?    I  know  your  temper. 

Capt.  G.     No. 

Mrs.  H.  Have  I  grown  old  in  the  last  few 
months,  then }  {Reaches  forward  to  bank  of 
flowers  for  menu-card.) 

Partner  on  Left.  Allow  me.  {Hands  menu- 
card.  Mrs.  H.  keeps  her  arm  at  full  stretch  for 
three  seconds.) 

Mrs.  H.  {To partner.)  Oh,  thanks.  I  didn't 
see.  {Turns  right  again.)  Is  anything  in  me 
changed  at  all  ? 

Capt.  G.  For  Goodness'  sake  go  on  with  your 
dinner!  You  must  eat  something.  Try  one  of 
those  cutlet  arrangements.  {Aside.)  And  I 
fancied  she  had  good  shoulders,  once  upon  a 
time!     What  an  ass  a  man  can  make  of  himself! 

Mrs.  H.  {Helping  herself  to  a  paper  frill, 
seven  peas,  some  stamped  carrots  and  a  spoonful 
of  gravy.)  That  isn't  an  answer.  Tell  me 
whether  I  have  done  anything. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  If  it  isn't  ended  here  there 
will  be  a  ghastly  scene  somewhere  else.  If  only 
I'd  written  to  her  and  stood  the  racket — at  long 
range!  {To  Khitmatgar.)  Han!  Simpkin  do. 
{Aloud.)    I'll  tell  you  later  on. 

Mrs.  H.  Tell  me  now.  It  must  be  some  fool- 
ish misunderstanding,  and  you  know  that  there 
was  to  be  nothing  of  that  sort  between  us.     We, 


50  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

of  all  people  in  the  world,  can't  afford  it.  Is  it 
the  Vaynor  man,  and  don't  you  like  to  say  so  ? 
On  my  honor  ^ 

Capt.  G.  I  haven't  given  the  Vaynor  man  a 
thought. 

Mrs.  H.     But  how  d'you  know  that  /  haven't.^ 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Here's  my  chance  and 
may  the  Devil  help  me  through  with  it.  (Aloud 
and  measuredly.)  Believe  me,  I  do  not  care  how 
often  or  how  tenderly  you  think  of  the  Vaynor 
man. 

Mrs.  H.  I  wonder  if  you  mean  that. — Oh, 
what  is  the  good  of  squabbling  and  pretending 
to  misunderstand  when  you  are  only  up  for  so 
short  a  time  }    Pip,  don't  be  a  stupid! 

Follows  a  pause,  during  which  he  crosses 
his  left  leg  over  his  right  and  continues 
his  dinner. 

Capt.  G.  (///  answer  to  the  thunderstorm  in 
her  eyes?)    Corns — my  worst. 

Mrs.  H.  Upon  my  word,  you  are  the  very 
rudest  man  in  the  world!     I'll  never  do  it  again. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  No,  I  don't  think  you 
will;  but  I  wonder  what  you  will  do  before  it's 
all  over.  (To  Khitmatgar.)  Thorah  ur  Simpkin 
do. 

Mrs.  H.  Well!  Haven't  you  the  grace  to 
apologize,  bad  man  ? 

Capt.  G.     {Aside.)    I  mustn't  let  it  drift  back 


The   Tents  of  Kedar  51 

noz:.  Trust  a  woman  for  being  as  blind  as  a  bat 
when  she  won't  see. 

Mrs.  H.  I'm  waiting:  or  would  you  like  me 
to  dictate  a  form  of  apology  } 

Capt.  G.  {Desperately.)  By  all  means  dic- 
tate. 

Mrs.  H.  {Lightly.)  Very  well.  Rehearse 
your  several  Christian  names  after  me  and  go 
on:  "Profess  my  sincere  repentance.'' 

Capt.  G.     ''Sincere  repentance." 

Mrs.  H.     "For  having  behaved "  — 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  At  last!  I  wish  to  Good- 
ness she'd  look  away.  "For  having  behaved" 
— as  I  have  behaved,  and  declare  that  I  am  thor- 
oughly and  heartily  sick  of  the  whole  business, 
and  take  this  opportunity  of  making  clear  my  in- 
tention of  ending  it,  now,  henceforward,  and 
forever.  {Aside.)  If  any  one  had  told  me  I 
should  be  such  a  blackguard  I  — 

Mrs.  H.  {Shaking  a  spoonful  of  potato  chips 
into  her  plate.)    That's  not  a  pretty  joke. 

Capt.  G.  No.  It's  a  reality.  {Aside.)  I 
wonder  if  smashes  of  this  kind  are  always  so  raw. 

Mrs.  H.  Really,  Pip,  you're  getting  more  ab- 
surd every  day. 

Capt.  G.  I  don't  think  you  quite  understand 
me.     Shall  I  repeat  it } 

Mrs.  H.  No!  For  pity's  sake  don't  do  that. 
It's  too  terrible,  even  in  fun. 


^2  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

Capt.  G.  I'll  let  her  think  it  over  for  a  while. 
But  1  ought  to  be  horse-whipped. 

Mrs.  H.  I  want  to  know  what  you  meant  by 
what  you  said  just  now. 

Capt.  G.     Exactly  what  I  said.     No  less. 

Mrs.  H.  But  what  have  I  done  to  deserve  it  ? 
What  have  1  done  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  If  she  only  wouldn't  look 
at  me.  {Aloud  and  very  slowly,  his  eyes  on  his 
plate.)  D'you  remember  that  evening  in  July, 
before  the  Rains  broke,  when  you  said  that  the 
end  would  have  to  come  sooner  or  later — and 
you  wondered  for  which  of  us  it  would  come 
first  ? 

Mrs.  H.  Yes  I  I  was  only  joking.  And  you 
swore  that,  as  long  as  there  was  breath  in  your 
body,  it  should  never  come.    And  1  believed  you. 

Capt.  G.  {Fingering  menu-card.)  Well,  it 
has.     That's  all. 

A  long  pause,  during  which  Mrs.  H.  bows 
her  head  and  rolls  the  bread-twist  into 
little  pellets :  G.  stares  at  the  oleanders. 

Mrs.  H.  (  Throwing  back  her  head  and  laugh- 
ing naturally.)  They  train  us  women  well, 
don't  they,  Pip  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Brutally,  touching  shirt-stud.)  So 
far  as  the  expression  goes.  {Aside.)  It  isn't  in 
her  nature  to  take  things  quietly.  There'll  be  an 
explosion  yet. 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  53 

Mrs.  H.  (With  a  shudder.')  Thank  you» 
B-but  even  Red  Indians  allow  people  to  wriggle 
when  they're  being  tortured,  I  believe.  (Slips 
fan  from  girdle  and  fans  slowly :  rim  of  fan 
level  with  chin.) 

Partner  on  Left.  Very  close  to-night,  isn't 
it  ?    'You  find  it  too  much  for  you  ? 

Mrs.  H.  Oh,  no,  not  in  the  least.  But  they 
really  ought  to  have  punkahs,  even  in  your  cool 
Naini  Tal,  oughtn't  they  ?  (  Turns,  dropping  fan 
and  raising  eyebrows.) 

Capt.  G.  It's  all  right.  (Aside.)  Here  comes 
the  storm! 

Mrs.  H.  (Her  eyes  on  the  tablecloth :  fan  ready 
in  right  hand.)  It  was  very  cleverly  managed, 
Pip,  and  I  congratulate  you.  You  swore — you 
never  contented  yourself  with  merely  saying  a 
thing — you  swore  that,  as  far  as  lay  in  your 
power,  you'd  make  my  wretched  life  pleasant 
for  me.  And  you've  denied  me  the  consolation 
of  breaking  down.  I  should  have  done  it — in- 
deed I  should.  A  woman  would  hardly  have 
thought  of  this  refinement,  my  kind,  considerate 
friend.  (Fan-guard  as  before.)  You  have  ex- 
plained things  so  tenderly  and  truthfully,  too! 
You  haven't  spoken  or  written  a  word  of  warn- 
ing, and  you  have  let  me  believe  in  you  till  the 
last  minute.  You  haven't  condescended  to  give 
me  your  reason  yet.     No!    A  woman  could  not 


54  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

have  managed  it  half  so  well.  Are  there  many 
men  like  you  in  the  world  ? 

Capt.  G.  I'm  sure  1  don't  know.  {To  Khit- 
matgar.)    Ohe!      Simphm  do. 

Mrs.  H.  You  call  yourself  a  man  of  the  world, 
don't  you  ?  Do  men  of  the  world  behave  like 
Devils  when  they  do  a  woman  the  honor  to  get 
tired  of  her  } 

Capt.  G.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Don't  speak 
so  loud! 

Mrs.  H.  Keep  us  respectable,  O  Lord,  what- 
ever happens!  Don't  be  afraid  of  my  compro- 
mising you.  You've  chosen  your  ground  far  too 
well,  and  I've  been  properly  brought  up.  {Low- 
ering fan.)  Haven't  you  any  pity,  Pip,  except 
for  yourself  .^ 

Capt.  G.  'Wouldn't  it  be  rather  impertinent  of 
me  to  say  that  I'm  sorry  for  you  } 

Mrs.  H.  I  think  you  have  said  it  once  or  twice 
before.  You're  growing  very  careful  of  my  feel- 
ings. My  God,  Pip,  I  was  a  good  woman  once! 
You  said  I  was.  You've  made  me  what  I  am. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  }  'What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  me  ?  Won't  you  say  that 
you  are  sorry  }  {Helps  herself  to  iced  aspar- 
agus.) 

Capt.  G.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  if  you  want  the 
pity  of  such  a  brute  as  I  am.  I'm  awf'ly  sorry 
for  you. 


The   Tents  of  Kedar  55 

Mrs.  H.  Rather  tame  for  a  man  of  the  world. 
Do  you  think  that  that  admission  clears  you  ? 

Capt.  G.  What  can  1  do  ?  1  can  only  tell  you 
what  1  think  of  m.yself.  You  can't  think  worse 
than  that  ? 

Mrs.  H.  Oh,  yes,  I  can!  And  now,  will  you 
tell  me  the  reason  of  all  this  ?  Remorse?  Has 
Bayard  been  suddenly  conscience-stricken  } 

Capt.  G.  {Angrily,  his  eyes  still lou'ered.)  No! 
The  thing  has  come  to  an  end  on  my  side.  That's 
all.     Mafisch  I 

Mrs.  H.  "That's  all.  Mafisch!''  As  though 
I  were  a  Cairene  Dragoman.  You  used  to  make 
prettier  speeches.  D'you  remember  when  you 
said  ? — 

Capt.  G.  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  bring  that 
back!  Call  me  anything  you  like  and  I'll  admit 
it  — 

Mrs.  H.  But  you  don't  care  to  be  reminded  of 
old  lies  }  If  I  could  hope  to  hurt  you  one-tenth 
as  much  as  you  have  hurt  me  to-night —  No,  I 
wouldn't — I  couldn't  do  it — liar  though  you  are. 

Capt.  G.     I've  spoken  the  truth. 

Mrs.  H.  My  dear  Sir,  you  flatter  yourself. 
You  have  lied  over  the  reason.  Pip,  remember 
that  I  know  you  as  you  don't  know  yourself. 
You  have  been  everything  to  me,  though  you 
are —  {Fan-guard.^  Oh,  what  a  contemptible 
Thing  it  is!     And  so  you  are  merely  tired  of  me  ? 


56  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

Capt.  G.  Since  you  insist  upon  my  repeating 
it— Yes. 

Mrs.  H.  Lie  the  first.  I  wish  I  knew  a  coarser 
word.  Lie  seems  so  ineffectual  in  your  case. 
The  fire  has  just  died  out  and  there  is  no  fresh 
one  ?  Think  for  a  minute,  Pip,  if  you  care 
whether  I  despise  you  more  than  I  do.  Simply 
Mafisch,  is  it  ? 

Capt.  G.  Yes.  {Aside.)  I  think  1  deserve 
this. 

Mrs.  H.  Lie  number  two.  Before  the  next 
glass  chokes  you,  tell  me  her  name. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  I'll  make  her  pay  for 
dragging  Minnie  into  the  business!  {Aloud.)  Is 
it  likely  ? 

Mrs.  H.  yery  likely  if  you  thought  that  it 
would  flatter  your  vanity.  You'd  cry  my  name 
on  the  house-tops  to  make  people  turn  round. 

Capt.  G.  I  wish  I  had.  There  would  have 
been  an  end  of  this  business. 

Mrs.  H.  Oh,  no,  there  would  not — And  so 
you  were  going  to  be  virtuous  and  blase,  were 
you  }  To  come  to  me  and  say:  "  I've  done  with 
you.  The  incident  is  clo-osed."  I  ought  to  be 
proud  of  having  kept  such  a  man  so  long. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  It  only  remains  to  pray 
for  the  end  of  the  dinner.  {Aloud.)  You  know 
what  I  think  of  myself 

Mrs.  H.     As  it's  the  only  person  in  the  world 


The   Tents  of  Kedar  57 

you  ever  do  think  of,  and  as  I  know  your  mind 
thoroughly,  I  do.  You  want  to  get  it  all  over 
and —  Oh,  1  can't  keep  you  back  I  And  you're 
going — think  of  it,  Pip — to  throw  me  over  for 
another  woman.  And  you  swore  that  all  other 
women  were —  Pip,  my  Pip!  She  cant  care 
for  you  as  I  do.  Believe  me^  she  can't!  Is  it 
any  one  that  I  know  } 

Capt.  G.  Thank  Goodness  it  isn't.  {Aside.) 
I  expected  a  cyclone,  but  not  an  earthquake. 

Mrs.  H.  She  cant!  Is  there  anything  that  I 
wouldn't  do  for  you — or  haven't  done  }  And  to 
think  that  I  should  take  this  trouble  over  you, 
knowing  what  you  are!  Do  you  despise  me  for 
it.^ 

Capt.  G.  {Wiping  his  month  to  hide  a  smile.) 
Again  ?  It's  entirely  a  work  of  charity  on  your 
part. 

Mrs.  H.  Ahhh!  But  I  have  no  right  to  re- 
sent it. — Is  she  better-looking  than  I  ?  Who  was 
it  said  ? — 

Capt.  G.     No — not  that! 

Mrs.  H.  I'll  be  more  merciful  than  you  were. 
Don't  you  know  that  all  women  are  alike  ? 

Capt.  G.  (Aside.)  Then  this  is  the  exception 
that  proves  the  rule. 

Mrs.  H.  All  of  them!  I'll  tell  you  anything 
you  like.  I  will,  upon  my  word!  They  only 
want  the  admiration — from  anybody — no  matter 


58  The   Tents  of  Kedar 

who — anybody!  But  there  is  always  07ie  man 
that  they  care  for  more  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world,  and  would  sacrifice  all  the  others  to.  Oh, 
^0  listen!  I've  kept  the  Vaynor  man  trotting 
after  me  like  a  poodle,  and  he  believes  that  he  is 
the  only  man  I  am  interested  in.  I'll  tell  you 
what  he  said  to  me. 

Capt.  G.  Spare  him.  (Aside.)  I  wonder 
what  his  version  is. 

Mrs.  H.  He's  been  waiting  for  me  to  look  at 
him  all  through  dinner.  Shall  I  do  it,  and  you 
can  see  what  an  idiot  he  looks  ? 

Capt.  G.  "But  what  imports  the  nomination 
of  this  gentleman  ?  " 

Mrs.  H.  Watch!  (Sends  a  glance  to  the 
Vaynor  man,  "who  tries  vainly  to  combine  a  mouth- 
fill  of  ice  pudding,  a  smirk  of  self-satisfaction,  a 
glare  of  intense  devotion,  and  the  stolidity  of  a 
British  dining  countenance.) 

Capt.  G.  {Critically.)  He  doesn't  look  pretty. 
Why  didn't  you  wait  till  the  spoon  was  out  of 
his  mouth  ? 

Mrs.  H.  To  amuse  you.  She'll  make  an  ex- 
hibition of  you  as  I've  made  of  him;  and  people 
will  laugh  at  you.  Oh,  Pip,  can't  you  see  that } 
It's  as  plain  as  the  noonday  sun.  You'll  be 
trotted  about  and  told  lies,  and  made  a  fool  of 
like  the  others.  /  never  made  a  fool  of  you, 
did  1 } 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  59 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  What  a  clever  little 
woman  it  is! 

Mrs.  H.     Well,  what  have  you  to  say  ? 

Capt.  G.     I  feel  better. 

iMrs.  H.  Yes,  1  suppose  so,  after  I  have  come 
down  to  your  level.  I  couldn't  have  done  it  if  I 
hadn't  cared  for  you  so  much.  I  have  spoken 
the  truth. 

Capt.  G.     It  doesn't  alter  the  situation. 

Mrs.  H.  (Passionately.)  Then  she  lias  said 
that  she  cares  for  you!  Don't  believe  her,  Pip. 
It's  a  lie — as  bad  as  yours  to  me! 

Capt.  G.  Ssssteady!  I've  a  notion  that  a 
friend  of  yours  is  looking  at  you. 

Mrs.  H.  He!  \  hate  him.  He  introduced  you 
to  me. 

Capt.  G.  (Aside.)  And  some  people  would 
like  women  to  assist  in  making  the  laws.  Intro- 
duction to  imply  condonement.  (Aloud.)  Well, 
you  see,  if  you  can  remember  so  far  back  as  that, 
I  couldn't,  in  common  politeness,  refuse  the  offer. 

Mrs.  H.  In  common  politeness!  We  have 
got  beyond  that/ 

Capt.  G.  (Aside.)  Old  ground  means  fresh 
trouble.     (Aloud.)     On  my  honor  — 

Mrs.  H.     Your  what?    Ha,  ha! 

Capt.  G.  Dishonor,  then.  She's  not  what 
you  imagine.     I  meant  to  — 

Mrs.  H.     Don't  tell  me   anything  about   her! 


6o  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

She  zvon't  care  for  you,  and  when  you  come 
back,  after  having  made  an  exhibition  of  your- 
self, you'll  find  me  occupied  with  — 

Capt.  G.  {Insolently.)  You  couldn't  while  I 
am  alive.  {Aside.)  If  that  doesn't  bring  her 
pride  to  her  rescue,  nothing  will. 

Mrs.  H.  {Drawing  herself  itp.)  Couldn't  do 
it?  I?  {Softening.)  You're  right.  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  could — though  you  are  what  you  are — a 
coward  and  a  liar  in  grain. 

Capt.  G.  It  doesn't  hurt  so  much  after  your 
little  lecture — with  demonstrations. 

Mrs.  H.  One  mass  of  vanity!  Will  nothing 
ever  touch  you  in  this  life }  There  must  be  a 
Hereafter  if  it's  only  for  the  benefit  of —  But 
you  will  have  it  all  to  yourself. 

Capt.  G.  {Under  his  eyebrows.)  Are  you  so 
certain  of  that  ? 

Mrs.  H.  I  shall  have  had  mine  in  this  life; 
and  it  will  serve  me  right. 

Capt.  G.  But  the  admiration  that  you  insisted 
on  so  strongly  a  moment  ago?  {Aside.)  Oh,  I 
am  a  brute! 

Mrs.  H.  {Fiercely.)  Will //za/ console  me  for 
knowing  that  you  will  go  to  her  with  the  same 
words,  the  same  arguments,  and  the — the  same 
pet  names  you  used  to  me  ?  And  if  she  cares 
for  you,  you  two  will  laugh  over  my  story. 
Won't  that  be  punishment  heavy  enough  even 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  6r 

for  me — even  for  me? —  And  it's  all  useless. 
That's  another  punishment. 

Capt.  G.  {Feebly.)  Oh,  come!  I'm  not  so 
low  as  you  think. 

Mrs.  H.  Not  now,  perhaps,  but  you  will  be. 
Oh,  Pip,  if  a  woman  flatters  your  vanity,  there's 
nothing  on  earth  that  you  would  not  tell  her; 
and  no  meanness  that  you  would  not  do.  Have 
I  known  you  so  long  without  knowing  that  ? 

Capt.  G.  If  you  can  trust  me  in  nothing  else 
— and  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  trusted — you 
can  count  upon  my  holding  my  tongue. 

Mrs.  H.  If  you  denied  everything  you've  said 
this  evening  and  declared  it  was  all  in  fun  {a 
long  pause),  I'd  trust  you.  Not  otherwise.  All 
I  ask  is,  don't  tell  her  my  name.  Please  don't. 
A  man  might  forget:  a  woman  never  would. 
{Looks  up  table  and  sees  hostess  beginning  to  col- 
lect eyes.)  So  it's  all  ended,  through  no  fault  of 
mine —  Haven't  1  behaved  beautifully.^  I've 
accepted  your  dismissal,  and  you  managed  it  as 
cruelly  as  you  could,  and  I  have  made  you  re- 
spect my  sex,  haven't  I  }  {Arranging  gloves  and 
fan.)  I  only  pray  that  she'll  know  you  some 
day  as  I  know  you  now.  I  wouldn't  be  you 
then,  for  I  think  even  your  conceit  will  be  hurt. 
I  hope  she'll  pay  you  back  the  humiliation  you've 
brought  on  me.  I  hope —  No.  I  don't.  I  cant 
give  you  up!     I  must  have  something  to  look 


62  The  Tents  of  Kedat 

forward  to  or  I  shall  go  crazy.  When  it's  all 
over,  come  back  to  me,  come  back  to  me,  and 
you'll  find  that  you're  my  Pip  still! 

Capt.  G.  (^l^ery  clearly.)  'False  move,  and 
you  pay  for  it.     It's  a  girl! 

Mrs.  H.  (^Rising.')  Then  it  ivas  true!  They 
said — but  I  wouldn't  insult  you  by  asking.  A 
girl!  /  was  a  girl  not  very  long  ago.  Be  good 
to  her,  Pip.     I  daresay  she  believes  in  you. 

Goes  out  with  an  uncertain  smile.     He 

watches  her  through  the  door,  and  set- 

ties  into  a  chair  as  the  men  redistribute 

themselves. 

Capt.  G.     Now,  if  there  is  any  Power  who 

looks  after  this  world,  will  He  kindly  tell  me 

what  I  have  done  }    {Reaching  out  for  the  claret, 

and  half  aloud.)    What  have  I  done  ? 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT 

And  are  not  afraid  with  any  amazement. 

Marriage  Service, 

Scene. — A  bachelor's  bedroom — toilet-table  ar- 
ranged  vjith  unnatural  neatness.  Captain 
Gadsby  asleep  and  snoring  heavily.  Time, 
10.30  A.M. — a  glorious  autumn  day  at  Simla. 
Enter  delicately  Captain  Mafflin  of  Gadsby's 
regiment.  Looks  at  sleeper,  and  shakes  his 
head  murmuring  ''Poor  Gaddy.''  Performs 
violent  fantasia  with  hair-brushes  on  chair- 
back. 
Capt.    M.      Wake  up,    my  sleeping  beauty!' 

{Roars.) 

"  Uprouse  ye,  then,  my  merry  merry  men  ! 
It  is  our  opening  day ! 
It  is  our  opening  da-ay  !  " 

Gaddy,  the  little  dicky-birds  have  been  billing 
and  cooing  for  ever  so  long  ;  and  Pm  here! 

Capt.  G.  [Sitting  up  and  yawning.)  'Mornin'. 
This  is  awf'ly  good  of  you,  old  fellow.  Most 
awf'ly  good  of  you.  'Don't  know  what  I  should 
do  without  you.  Ton  my  soul,  I  don't.  'Haven't 
slept  a  wink  all  night. 


66  With  Any  Amazement 

Capt.  M.  I  didn't  get  in  till  half-past  eleven. 
'Had  a  look  at  you  then,  and  you  seemed  to  be 
sleeping  as  soundly  as  a  condemned  criminal. 

Capt.  G.  Jack,  if  you  want  to  make  those  dis- 
gustingly worn-out  jokes,  you'd  better  go  away. 
(IVith  portentous  gravity.)  It's  the  happiest  day 
in  my  life. 

Capt.  M.  {ChnMing  grimty.')  Not  by  a  very 
long  chalk,  my  son.  You're  going  through  some 
of  the  most  refined  torture  you've  ever  known. 
But  be  calm,     /am  with  you.     'Shun!     Dress! 

Capt.  G.     Eh!    Wha-at.? 

Capt.  M.  Do  you  suppose  that  you  are  your 
own  master  for  the  next  twelve  hours  }  If  you 
do,  of  course  —    (Makes  for  the  door.) 

Capt.  G.  No!  For  Goodness'  sake,  old  man, 
don't  do  that!  You'll  see  me  through,  won't 
you  }  I've  been  mugging  up  that  beastly  drill, 
and  can't  remember  a  line  of  it. 

Capt.  M.  (Overhauthig  G.'s  uniform.)  Go 
and  tub.  Don't  bother  me.  I'll  give  you  ten 
minutes  to  dress  in. 

Interval,  filled  by    the  noise    as    of  one 
splashing  in  the  bath-room. 

Capt.  G.  {Emerging  from  dressing-room.') 
What  time  is  it  ? 

Capt.  M.     Nearly  eleven. 

Capt.  G.     Five  hours  more.     O  Lord! 

Capt.  M.     {Aside.)    'First  sign  of  funk,  that. 


With  Any  Amaiement  67 

'Wonder  if  it's  going  to  spread.    {Aloud.)    Come 
along  to  breakfast. 

Capt.  G.  I  can't  eat  anything.  I  don't  want 
any  breakfast. 

Capt.  M.  (Aside.')  So  early!  (Aloud.)  Cap- 
tain Gadsby,  I  order  you  to  eat  breakfast,  and  a 
dashed  good  breakfast,  too.  None  of  your  bridal 
airs  and  graces  with  me! 

Leads  G.  downstairs,  and  stands  over  him 
-ushile  he  eats  tijco  chops. 

Capt.  G.  {Who  has  looked  at  his  watch  thrice 
in  the  last  five  minutes.)    What  time  is  it } 

Capt.  M.    Time  to  come  for  a  walk.    Light  up. 

Capt.  G.  I  haven't  smoked  for  ten  days,  and 
I  won't  now.  (  Takes  cheroot  which  M.  has  cut 
for  him,  and  blows  smoke  through  his  noise  lux- 
nriously.)  We  aren't  going  down  the  Mall,  are 
we  ? 

Capt.  M.  (Aside.)  They're  all  alike  in  these 
stages.  (Aloud.)  No,  my  Vestal.  We're  going 
along  the  quietest  road  we  can  fmd. 

Capt.  G.     Any  chance  of  seeing  Her? 

Capt.  M.  Innocent!  No!  Come  along,  and, 
if  you  want  me  for  the  fmal  obsequies,  don't  cut 
my  eye  out  with  your  stick. 

Capt.  G.  (Spinning  round.)  I  say,  isn't  She 
the  dearest  creature  that  ever  walked  }  What's 
the  time?  What  comes  after  "wilt  thou  take 
this  woman  "  ? 


68  IVtth  Any  Ama:{ement 

Capt.  M.  You  go  for  the  ring.  R'clect  it'll 
be  on  the  top  of  my  right-hand  little  finger,  and 
just  be  careful  how  you  draw  it  off,  because  I 
shall  have  the  Verger's  fees  somewhere  in  my 
glove. 

Capt.  G.     {Walking  forward  hastily.^    D 

the  Verger!  Come  along!  It's  past  twelve  and 
i  haven't  seen  Her  since  yesterday  evening.  {Spin- 
Ming  round  again. ^  She's  an  absolute  angel. 
Jack,  and  She's  a  dashed  deal  too  good  for  me. 
-Look  here,  does  She  come  up  the  aisle  on  my 
•arm,  or  how  } 

Capt.  M.  If  I  thought  that  there  was  the  least 
chance  of  your  remembering  anything  for  two 
consecutive  minutes,  I'd  tell  you.  Stop  passag- 
ing about  like  that! 

Capt.  G.  {Halting  in  the  middle  of  the  road.) 
1  say.  Jack. 

Capt.  M.  Keep  quiet  for  another  ten  minutes 
if  you  can,  you  lunatic  ;  and  walk! 

The  two  tramp  at  five  miles  an  hour  for 
fifteen  minutes. 

Capt.  G.  What's  the  time  ?  How  about  that 
cursed  wedding-cake  and  the  slippers?  They 
don't  throw  'em  about  in  church,  do  they  ? 

Capt.  M.  In-variably.  The  Padre  leads  off 
with  his  boots. 

Capt.  G.  Confound  your  silly  soul!  Don't 
make  fun  of  me.     I  can't  stand  it,  and  I  won't! 


With  Any  Ama:{ement  69 

Capt.  M.  {Untroubled.)  So-000,  old  horse! 
You'll  have  to  sleep  for  a  couple  of  hours  this 
afternoon. 

Capt.  G.  {Spinning  rotmd.)  I'm  not  going 
to  be  treated  like  a  dashed  child.  Understand 
that! 

Capt.  M.  (Aside.)  Nerves  gone  to  fiddle- 
strings.  What  a  day  we're  having!  {Tenderly 
putting  his  hand  on  G.'s  shoulder.)  My  David, 
how  long  have  you  known  this  Jonathan } 
Would  I  come  up  here  to  make  a  fool  of  you 
— after  all  these  years  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Penitently.)  I  know,  I  know,  Jack 
— but  I'm  as  upset  as  I  can  be.  Don't  mind  what 
I  say.  Just  hear  me  run  through  the  drill  and  see 
if  I've  got  it  all  right:  — 

"  To  have  and  to  hold  for  better  or  worse,  as  it 
was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall  be, 
world  without  end,  so  help  me  God.     Amen." 

Capt.  M.  {Suffocating  ijcith  suppressed  laugh- 
ter.) Yes.  That's  about  the  gist  of  it.  I'll  prompt 
if  you  get  into  a  hat. 

Capt.  G.  {Earnestly.)  Yes,  you'll  stick  by 
me,  Jack,  won't  you  ?  I'm  awf'ly  happy,  but  I 
don't  mind  \t\\\x\gyou  that  I'm  in  a  blue  funk! 

Capt.  M.  (Gravely.)  Are  you?  I  should 
never  have  noticed  it.     You  don't  look  like  it. 

Capt.  G.  Don't  I  ?  That's  all  right.  {Spin- 
ning round.)    On  my  soul  and  honor,  Jack,  She's 


70  IVith  Any  Ama:{ement 

the  sweetest  little  angel  that  ever  came  down 
from  the  sky.  There  isn't  a  woman  on  earth  fit 
to  speak  to  Her. 

Capt.  M.  {Aside.')  And  this  is  old  Gaddy! 
{Aloud.)    Go  on  if  it  relieves  you. 

Capt.  G.  You  can  laugh!  That's  all  you  wild 
asses  of  bachelors  are  fit  for. 

Capt.  M.  {Drawling.)  You  never  would  wait 
for  the  troop  to  come  up.  You  aren't  quite 
married  yet,  y'know. 

Capt.  G.  Ugh!  That  reminds  me.  I  don't 
believe  I  shall  be  able  to  get  into  my  boots.  Let's 
go  home  and  try  'em  on!    {Hurries  forward.) 

Capt.  M.  'Wouldn't  be  in  your  shoes  for  any- 
thing that  Asia  has  to  offer. 

Capt.  G.  {Spinning  round.)  That  just  shows 
your  hideous  blackness  of  soul — your  dense  stu- 
pidity— your  brutal  narrow-mindedness.  There's 
only  one  fault  about  you.  You're  the  best  of 
good  fellows,  and  1  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done  without  you,  but — you  aren't  married. 
{Wags  his  head  gravely.)    Take  a  wife.  Jack. 

Capt.  M.  {With  a  face  like  a  wall.)  Ya-as. 
Whose  for  choice  } 

Capt.  G.  If  you're  going  to  be  a  blackguard, 
I'm  going  on —    What's  the  time  .^ 

Capt.  M.     {Hums.) — 

"  An'  since  'twas  very  clear  we  drank  only  ginger-beer, 
Faith,  there  must  ha'  been  some  stingo  in  the  ginger." 


With  Any  Amaiement  71 

Come  back,  you  maniac.  I'm  going  to  take 
you  home,  and  you're  going  to  lie  down. 

Capt.  G.  Wiiat  on  earth  do  I  want  to  lie 
down  for  ? 

Capt.  M.  Give  me  a  light  from  your  cheroot 
and  see. 

Capt.  G.  (Watching  cheroot-butt  quiver  like 
a  tuning-fork.)    Sweet  state  I'm  in! 

Capt.  M.  You  are.  I'll  get  you  a  peg  and 
you'll  go  to  sleep. 

They  return  and  M.  compounds  a  four- 
finger  peg. 

Capt.  G.  O  bus  !  bus  !  It'll  make  me  as  drunk 
as  an  owl. 

Capt.  M.  'Curious  thing,  'twon't  have  the 
slightest  effect  on  you.  Drink  it  off,  chuck  your- 
self down  there,  and  go  to  bye-bye. 

Capt.  G.  It's  absurd.  I  sha'n't  sleep.  I  k7iow 
I  sha'n't! 

Falls  into  heavy  doie  at  end  of  seven 
minutes.  Capt.  M.  zvatches  him  ten- 
derly. 

Capt.  M.  Poor  old  Gaddy!  I've  seen  a  few 
turned  off  before,  but  never  one  who  went  to 
the  gallows  in  this  condition.  'Can't  tell  how  it 
affects  'em,  though.  It's  the  thoroughbreds  that 
sweat  when  they're  backed  into  double-harness. 
— And  that's  the  man  who  went  through  the 
guns  at  Amdheran  like  a    devil    possessed  of 


72  With  Any  Amaiement 

devils.  {Leans  over  G.)  But  this  is  worse  than 
the  guns,  old  pal — worse  than  the  guns,  isn't  it  ? 
(G.  turns  in  his  sleep,  and  M.  touches  him  clum- 
sily on  the  forehead.^  Poor,  dear  old  Gaddy! 
Going  like  the  rest  of  'em— going  like  the  rest  of 
'em— Friend  that  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother- 
eight  years.  Dashed  bit  of  a  slip  of  a  girl— eight 
weeks!  And— where's  your  friend.?  {Smokes 
disconsolately  till  church  clock  strikes  three.') 

Capt.  M.     Up  with  you!    Get  into  your  kit. 

Capt.  G.  Already  ?  Isn't  it  too  soon  }  Hadn't 
1  better  have  a  shave  } 

Capt.  M.  }^o!  You're  all  right.  {Aside.) 
He'd  chip  his  chin  to  pieces. 

Capt.  G.     What's  the  hurry  } 

Capt.  M.     You've  got  to  be  there  first. 

Capt.  G.     To  be  stared  at  ? 

Capt.  M.  Exactly.  You're  part  of  the  show. 
Where's  the  burnisher }  Your  spurs  are  in  a 
shameful  state. 

Capt.  G.  {Gruffly.)  Jack,  I  be  damned  if  you 
shall  do  that  for  me. 

Capt.  M.  {More  gruffly.)  Dry  up  and  get 
dressed!  If  I  choose  to  clean  your  spurs,  you're 
under  my  orders. 

Capt.  G.  dresses.     M.  follows  suit. 

Capt.  M.  {Critically,  walking  round.)  M'yes, 
you'll  do.  Only  don't  look  so  like  a  criminal. 
Ring,  gloves,  fees— that's  all  right  for  me.     Let 


With  Any  Amazement  73 

your  moustache  alone.  Now,  if  the  ponies  are 
ready,  we'll  go. 

Capt.  G.  {Nervously.)  It's  much  too  soon. 
Let's  light  up!     Let's  have  a  peg!     Let's  — 

Capt.  M.     Let's  make  bally  asses  of  ourselves! 

BellSo     (Without.)  — 

"  Good — peo — pie — all 
To  prayers — we  call." 

Capt.  M.     There  go  the  bells!     Come  on — un- 
less you'd  rather  not.     (They  ride  off.) 
Bells. — 

"  We  honor  the  King 
And  Brides  joy  do  bring  — 
Good  tidings  we  tell, 
And  ring  the  Dead's  knell." 

Capt.  G.  (Dismounting  at  the  door  of  the 
Chnrch.)  I  say,  aren't  we  much  too  soon  ? 
There  are  no  end  of  people  inside.  I  say,  aren't 
we  much  too  late  .^  Stick  by  me.  Jack!  What 
the  devil  do  I  do  ? 

Capt.  M.  Strike  an  attitude  at  the  head  of  the 
aisle  and  wait  for  Her.  (G.  groans  as  M.  ivheels 
him  into  position  before  three  hundred  eyes.) 

Capt.  M.  (Imploringly.)  Gaddy,  if  you  love 
me,  for  pity's  sake,  for  the  Honor  of  the  Regi- 
ment, stand  up!  Chuck  yourself  into  your  uni- 
form! Look  like  a  man!  I've  got  to  speak  to 
the  Padre  a  minute.     (G.   breaks  into  a  gentle 


74  With  Any  Ama:{ement 

perspiratio7i.)  If  you  wipe  your  face  I'll  never 
be  your  best  man  again.  Stand  np  !  (G.  trembles 
visibly.) 

Capt.  M.  (^Returning.)  She's  coming  now. 
Look  out  when  the  music  starts.  There's  the 
organ  beginning  to  clack. 

Bride  steps  out  of  Wickshaw  at  Church 
door.     G.  catches  a  glimpse  of  her  and 
takes  heart. 
Organ. — 

«  The  Voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden, 
That  earliest  marriage  day, 
The  primal  marriage-blessing, 
It  hath  not  passed  away." 

Capt.  M.  {IVatching  G.)  By  Jove!  He  is 
looking  well.     'Didn't  think  he  had  it  in  him. 

Capt.  G.  How  long  does  this  hymn  go  on 
for? 

Capt.  M.  It  will  be  over  directly.  {Anx- 
iously.') Beginning  to  bleach  and  gulp.?*  Hold 
on,  Gaddy,  and  think  o'  the  Regiment. 

Capt.  G.  (Measuredly.)  I  say,  there's  a  big 
brown  lizard  crawling  up  that  wall. 

Capt.  M.  My  Sainted  Mother!  The  last  stage 
of  collapse  ! 

Bride  comes  up  to  left  of  altar,  lifts  her 
eyes  once  to  G.,  who  is  suddenly  smitten 
mad. 

Capt.  G.    {To  himself  again  and  again.)    Lit- 


With  Any  Amaieinent  75 

tie  Featherweight's  a  woman — a  woman!     And 
1  thought  she  was  a  little  girl. 

Capt.  M.  {In  a  whisper.)  Form  the  halt — in- 
ward wheel, 

Capt.  G.  obeys  mechanically  and  the  cere- 
mony proceeds. 
Padre.     .     .     .     only  unto  her  as  long  as  ye 
both  shall  live  } 
Capt.  G.     {His  throat  useless.)     Ha — hmmm! 
Capt.  M.     Say  you  will  or  you  won't.    There's 
no  second  deal  here. 

Bride  gives  response  with  perfect  coolness, 
and  is  given  away  by  the  father. 
Capt.  G.     {Thinking  to  show   his  learning.) 
Jack  give  me  away  now,  quick  ! 

Capt.  M.  You're  given  yourself  away  quite 
enough.  Her  right  hand,  man!  Repeat!  Re- 
peat! "Theodore  Philip."  Have  you  forgotten 
your  own  name  } 

Capt.   G.    stumbles  through  Affirmation, 
which  Bride  repeats  without  a  tremor. 
Capt.  M.     Now  the  ring!     Follow  the  Padre! 
Don't  pull  off  my  glove!  Here  it  is!  Great  Cupid, 
he's  found  his  voice! 

G.  repeats   Troth  in  a  voice  to  be  heard  to 
the  end  of  the  Church  and  turns  on  his 
heel. 
Capt.    M.     {Desperately.)    Rein   back!     Back 
to  your  troop!     'Tisn't  half  legal  yet. 


76  With  Any  Amaiement 

Padre.  .  .  .  joined  together  let  no  man 
put  asunder. 

Capt.   G.  paralysed  zvWi  fear  jibs  after 
Blessing. 

Capt.  M.  {Quickly.)  On  your  own  front — 
one  length.  Take  her  with  you.  I  don't  come. 
You've  nothing  to  say.  (Capt.  G.  jingles  up  to 
altar. ) 

Capt.  M.  {In  a  piercing  rattle  meant  to  be  a 
u'hisper.)  Kneel,  you  stiff-necked  ruffian! 
Kneel! 

Padre.  .  .  .  whose  daughters  are  ye  so 
long  as  ye  do  well  and  are  not  afraid  with  any 
amazement. 

Capt.  M.     Dismiss!     Break  off!     Left  wheel! 
All  troop  to  vestry.     They  sign. 

Capt.  M.     Kiss  Her,  Gaddy. 

Capt.  G.  {Rubbing  the  ink  into  his  glove.) 
Eh!    Wha-at? 

Capt.  M.  {Taking  one  pace  to  Bride.)  If  you 
don't,  I  shall. 

Capt.  G.  {Interposing  an  arm.)  Not  this 
journey! 

General  kissing,  in  which  Capt.  G  is  pur- 
sued by  unknozvn  female. 

Capt.  G.  {Faintly  to  M.)  This  is  Hades! 
Can  I  wipe  my  face  now  ? 

Capt.  M.  My  responsibility  has  ended.  Bet- 
ter ask  Missis  Gadsby. 


With  Any  Ama^^ement  77 

Capt.  G.  "d^inces  as  tJioiigh  shot  and  pro- 
cession is  Mendelssohned  out  of  Church 
to  house,  "cohere  usual  tortures  take  place 
over  the  z^edding-cake. 

Capt.  M.  (At  table.)  Up  with  you,  Gaddy. 
They  expect  a  speech. 

Capt.  G.  (After  three  7ninutes'  agony.)  Ha 
— hmmm.     (Thunders  of  applause.) 

Capt.  M.  Doocid  good,  for  a  first  attempt. 
Now  go  and  change  your  kit  while  Mamma  is 
weeping  over — "the  Missus."  (Capt.  G.  disap- 
pears. Capt.  M.  starts  up  tearing  his  hair.)  It's 
not  half  legal.  Where  are  the  shoes  ?  Get  an 
ayah. 

Ayah.  Missie  Captain  Sahib  done  gone  band 
karo  all  \.\\q,  jutis. 

Capt.  M.  {Brandishing  scabbarded  szvord.) 
Woman,  produce  those  shoes!  Some  one  lend 
me  a  bread-knife.  We  mustn't  crack  Caddy's 
head  more  than  it  is.  (Slices  heel  off  lohite  satin 
slipper  and  puts  slipper  up  his  sleeve.)  Where  is 
the  Bride  ?  (To  the  company  at  large.)  Be  tender 
with  that  rice.  It's  a  heathen  custom.  Give  me 
the  big  bag. 


Bride  slips  out  quietly  into  'rickshaw  and 
departs  toward  the  sunset. 
Capt.    M.     (In    the    open.)    Stole   away,    by 


78  With  Any  Amaiement 

jove!  So  much  the  worse  for  Gaddy!  Here  he 
is.  Now  Gaddy,  this'll  be  livelier  than  Amdhe- 
ran!    Where's  your  horse  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Furiously,  seeing  that  the  "usomen 
are  out  of  earshot.)    Where  the — is  my  Wife  ? 

Capt.  M.  Half-way  to  Mahasu  by  this  time. 
You'll  have  to  ride  like  Young  Lochinvar. 

Horse  comes  round  on  his  hind  legs ;  re- 
fuses to  let  G.  handle  him. 
Capt.  G.  Oh  you  will,  will  you  ?    Get  round, 
you  brute — you  hog — you  beast!     Get  round! 
Wrenches  horses  head  over,  nearly  break- 
ing lower  jaijo  ;  swings  himself  into  sad- 
dle, and  sends  hojjie  both  spurs  in  the 
midst  of  a  spattering  gale  of  Best  Patna. 
Capt.  M.     For  your  life  and  your  love — ride, 
Gaddy! — And  God  bless  you! 

Throws  half  a  pound  of  rice  at  G.,  who 
disappears,  bowed  forward  on  the  saddle, 
in  a  cloud  of  sunlit  dust. 
Capt.  M.     I've  lost  old  Gaddy.     {Lights  cigar- 
ette and  strolls  off,  singing  absently) : — 

**  You  may  carve  it  on  his  tombstone,  you  may  cut  it  on  his 

card, 
That  a  young  man  married  is  a  young  man  marred  !  " 

Miss  Deercourt.  (Fro?n  her  horse.)  Really, 
Captain  Mafflin!  You  are  more  plain  spoken 
than  polite! 


With  Any  Amazement  7^ 

Capt.  M.     {Aside.)    They  say  marriage  is  like 
cholera.     'Wonder  who'll  be  the  next  victim. 

White  satin  slipper  slides  from  his  sleeve 
and  falls  at  his  feet.     Left  wondering. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 

And  ye  shall  be  as — Gods  ! 

Scene. —  Thymy  grass-plot  at  back  of  the  Mahasu 
ddk-bimgalow,  overlooking  little  wooded  valley . 
On  the  left,  glimpse  of  the  Dead  Forest  of 
Fagoo ;  on  the  right,  Simla  Hills.  In  back- 
ground, line  of  the  Snows.  Captain  Gadsby, 
now  three  weeks  a  husband,  is  smoking  the  pipe 
of  peace  on  a  rug  in  the  sunshine.  Banjo  and 
tobacco-pouch  on  rug.  Overhead  the  Fagoo 
eagles.     Mrs.  G.  comes  out  of  bungalow. 

Mrs.  G.     My  husband! 

Capt.  G.  {Lazily,  with  intense  enjoyment.) 
Eh,  wha-at  ?    Say  that  again. 

Mrs.  G.  I've  written  to  Mamma  and  told  her 
that  we  shall  be  back  on  the  17th. 

Capt.  G.     Did  you  give  her  my  love  } 

Mrs.  G.  No,  I  kept  all  that  for  myself.  {Sit- 
ting down  by  his  side.)  1  thought  you  wouldn't 
mind. 

Capt.  G.  {With  mock  sternness.)  1  object 
awf'ly.  How  did  you  know  that  it  was  yours  to 
keep  ? 

83 


84  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Mrs.  G.    I  guessed,  Phil. 

Capt.  G.  (Rapturously.)  Lit-tle  Feather- 
weight! 

Mrs.  G.  I  won't  be  called  those  sporting  pet 
names,  bad  boy. 

Capt.  G.  You'll  be  called  anything  I  choose. 
Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,  Madam,  that  you  are 
my  Wife  ? 

Mrs.  G.  It  has.  I  haven't  ceased  wondering 
at  it  yet. 

Capt.  G.  Nor  I.  It  seems  so  strange;  and 
yet,  somehow,  it  doesn't.  {Confidently. )  You 
see,  it  could  have  been  no  one  else. 

Mrs.  G.  {Softly.)  No.  No  one  else— for  me 
or  for  you.  It  must  have  been  all  arranged  from 
the  beginning.  Phil,  tell  me  again  what  made 
you  care  for  me. 

Capt.  G.  How  could  I  help  it?  You  were 
you,  you  know. 

Mrs.  G.  Did  you  ever  want  to  help  it  ?  Speak 
the  truth! 

Capt.  G.  {A  tiinnkle  in  his  eye.)  I  did, 
darling,  just  at  the  first.  But  only  at  the  very 
first.  {Chuckles.)  I  called  you— stoop  low  and 
I'll  whisper— ^* a  little  beast."     Ho!  Ho!  Ho! 

Mrs.  G.  ( Taking  him  by  the  moustache  and 
making  him  sit  up.)  ''  A— little— beast ! ''  Stop 
laughing  over  your  crime!  And  yet  you  had  the 
— the — awful  cheek  to  propose  to  me! 


The  Garden  of  Eden  85 

Capt.  G.  I'd  changed  my  mind  then.  And 
you  weren't  a  little  beast  any  more. 

Mrs.  G.  Thank  you,  sir!  And  when  was  I 
ever  ? 

Capt.  G.  Never!  But  that  first  day,  when 
you  gave  me  tea  in  that  peach-colored  muslin 
gown  thing,  you  looked — you  did  indeed,  dear — 
such  an  absurd  little  mite.  And  I  didn't  know 
what  to  say  to  you. 

Mrs.  G.  {Ticisting  moustache.')  So  you  said 
''little  beast."  Upon  my  word,  Sir!  /  called 
you  a  "  Crrrreature,"  but  I  wish  now  I  had  called 
you  something  worse. 

Capt.  G.  {Fery  meekly.)  I  apologize,  but 
you're  hurting  me  awf  ly.  {Interlude.)  You're 
welcome  to  torture  me  again  on  those  terms. 

Mrs.  G.     Oh,  zshy  did  you  let  me  do  it } 

Capt.  G.  {Looking  across  valley.)  No  reason 
in  particular,  but — if  it  amused  you  or  did  you 
any  good — you  might — wipe  those  dear  little 
boots  of  yours  on  me. 

Mrs.  G.  {Stretching  out  her  hands.)  Don't! 
Oh,  don't!  Philip,  my  King,  please  don't  talk 
like  that.  It's  how  /  feel.  You're  so  much  too 
good  for  me.     So  much  too  good! 

Capt.  G.  Me!  I'm  not  fit  to  put  my  arm 
round  you.     {Puts  it  round.) 

Mrs.  G.  Yes,  you  are.  But  I — what  have  I 
ever  done  } 


86  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Capt.  G.  Given  me  a  wee  bit  of  your  heart, 
haven't  you,  my  Queen  ? 

Mrs.  G.  That's  nothing.  Any  one  would  do 
that.     They  cou — couldn't  help  it. 

Capt.  G.  Pussy,  you'll  make  me  horribly  con- 
ceited. Just  when  I  was  beginning  to  feel  so 
humble,  too. 

Mrs.  G.  Humble!  I  don't  believe  it's  in  your 
character. 

Capt.  G.  What  do  you  know  of  my  char- 
acter, Impertinence  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Ah,  but  I  shall,  sha'n't  I,  Phil  ?  I 
shall  have  time  in  all  the  years  and  years  to  come, 
to  know  everything  about  you;  and  there  will  be 
no  secrets  between  us. 

Capt.  G.  Little  witch!  I  believe  you  know 
me  thoroughly  already. 

Mrs.  G.     I  think  I  can  guess.     You're  selfish.? 

Capt.  G.     Yes. 

Mrs.  G.     Foolish  ? 

Capt.  G.     J^ery. 

Mrs.  G.     And  a  dear  ? 

Capt.  G.     That  is  as  my  lady  pleases. 

Mrs.  G.  Then  your  lady  is  pleased.  {A 
pause.)  D'you  know  that  we're  two  solemn, 
serious,  grown-up  people  — 

Capt.  G .  (  Tilting  her  stra-u:  hat  over  h er  eyes. ) 
You  grown-up!     Pooh!    You're  a  baby. 

Mrs.  G.     And  we're  talking  nonsense. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  87 

Capt.  G.  Then  let's  go  on  talking  nonsense. 
I  rather  like  it.  Pussy,  I'll  tell  you  a  secret. 
Promise  not  to  repeat  ? 

Mrs.  G.     Ye — es.     Only  to  you. 

Capt.  G.     I  love  you. 

Mrs.  G.     Re-ally!     For  how  long  ? 

Capt.  G.     Forever  and  ever. 

Mrs.  G.     That's  a  long  time. 

Capt.  G.  Think  so  ?  It's  the  shortest  /  can 
do  with. 

Mrs.  G.     You're  getting  quite  clever. 

Capt.  G.     I'm  talking  io  you. 

Mrs.  G.  Prettily  turned.  Hold  up  your  stupid 
old  head  and  I'll  pay  you  for  it! 

Capt.  G.  {Affecting  supreme  C07itempt.)  Take 
it  yourself  if  you  want  it. 

Mrs.  G.  I've  a  great  mind  to — and  I  will! 
{Takes  it  and  is  repaid  with  interest.) 

Capt.  G.  Little  Featherweight,  it's  my  opinion 
that  we  are  a  couple  of  idiots. 

Mrs.  G.  We're  the  only  two  sensible  peo- 
ple in  the  world!  Ask  the  eagle.  He's  coming 
by. 

Capt.  G.  Ah!  I  dare  say  he's  seen  a  good 
many  sensible  people  at  Mahasu.  They  say  that 
those  birds  live  for  ever  so  long. 

Mrs.  G.     How  long  ? 

Capt.  G.     A  hundred  and  twenty  years. 

Mrs.  G.     a  hundred  and  twenty  years!    O- 


88  The  Garden  of  Eden 

oh !  And  in  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  where 
will  these  two  sensible  people  be  ? 

Capt.  G.  What  does  it  matter  so  long  as  we 
are  together  now  ? 

Mrs.  G.  (^Looking  round  the  horizon.)  Yes. 
Only  you  and  1 — I  and  you — in  the  whole  wide, 
wide  world  until  the  end.  {Sees  the  line  of  the 
Snows.)  How  big  and  quiet  the  hills  look!  D'you 
think  they  care  for  us  ? 

Capt.  G.  'Can't  say  I've  consulted  'em  par- 
ticularly.    /  care,  and  that's  enough  for  me. 

Mrs.  G.  (Drawing  nearer  to  him.)  Yes,  now 
— but  afterward.  What's  that  little  black  blur  on 
the  Snows  ? 

Capt.  G.  A  snowstorm,  forty  miles  away. 
You'll  see  it  move,  as  the  wind  carries  it  across 
the  face  of  that  spur,  and  then  it  will  be  all  gone. 

Mrs.  G.    And  then  it  will  be  all  gone.  (Shivers.) 

Capt.  G.  (Anxiously.)  'Not  chilled,  pet,  are 
you  }    'Better  let  me  get  your  cloak. 

Mrs.  G.  No.  Don't  leave  me,  Phil.  Stay 
here.  1  believe  I  am  afraid.  Oh,  why  are  the 
hills  so  horrid!  Phil,  promise  me,  promise  me 
that  you'll  always  love  me. 

Capt.  G.  What's  the  trouble,  darling  ?  I  can't 
promise  any  more  than  I  have;  but  I'll  promise 
that  again  and  again  if  you  like. 

Mrs.  G.  (Her  head  on  his  shoulder.)  Say  it, 
then — say   it!    N-no — don't!     The — the — eagles 


The  Garden  of  Eden  89 

would  laugh.  {Recovering.)  My  husband, 
you've  married  a  little  goose. 

Capt.  G.  {l^ery  tenderly.)  Have  I?  1  am 
content  whatever  she  is,  so  long  as  she  is  mine. 

Mrs.  G.  {Quickly.)  Because  she  is  yours  or 
because  she  is  me  mineself  } 

Capt.  G.  Because  she  is  both.  {Piteously.) 
I'm  not  clever,  dear,  and  I  don't  think  1  can  make 
myself  understood  properly. 

Mrs.  G.  /  understand.  Pip,  will  you  tell  me 
something  ? 

Capt.  G.  Anything  you  like.  (Aside.)  I 
wonder  what's  coming  now. 

Mrs.  G.  {Haltingly,  her  eyes  lozvered.)  You 
told  me  once  in  the  old  days — centuries  and  cen- 
turies ago — that  you  had  been  engaged  before.  I 
didn't  say  anything — then. 

Capt.  G.     (Innocently.)     Why  not  .^ 

Mrs.  G.  (Raising  her  eyes  to  his.)  Because — 
because  I  was  afraid  of  losing  you,  my  heart. 
But  now — tell  about  it — please. 

Capt.  G.  There's  nothing  to  tell.  I  was 
awf'ly  old  then — nearly  two  and  twenty — and 
she  was  quite  that. 

Mrs.  G.  That  means  she  was  older  than  you. 
I  shouldn't  like  her  to  have  been  younger.     'Well  ? 

Capt.  G.  'Well,  I  fancied  myself  in  love  and 
raved  about  a  bit,  and — oh,  yes,  by  Jove!  I  made 
up  poetry.     Ha!     Ha! 


90  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Mrs.  G.  You  never  wrote  any  for  me  !  What 
happened  ? 

Capt.  G.  I  came  out  here,  and  the  whole 
thing  went  phut  She  wrote  to  say  that  there 
had  been  a  mistake,  and  then  she  married. 

Mrs.  G.     Did  she  care  for  you  much  ? 

Capt.  G.  No.  At  least  she  didn't  show  it  as 
far  as  I  remember. 

Mrs.  G.  As  far  as  you  remember!  Do  you 
remember  her  name.?  [Hears  it  and  bows  her 
head.)    Thank  you,  my  husband. 

Capt.  G.  Who  but  you  had  the  right }  Now, 
Little  Featherweight,  have  you  ever  been  mixed 
up  in  any  dark  and  dismal  tragedy  } 

Mrs.  G.  If  you  call  me  Mrs.  Gadsby,  p'raps 
I'll  tell. 

Capt.  G.  {Throwing  Parade  rasp  into  his 
voice.)    Mrs.  Gadsby,  confess! 

Mrs.  G.  Good  Heavens,  Phil!  I  never  knew 
that  you  could  speak  in  that  terrible  voice. 

Capt.  G.  You  don't  know  half  my  accom- 
plishments yet.  Wait  till  we  are  settled  in  the 
Plains,  and  I'll  show  you  how  I  bark  at  my  troop. 
You  were  going  to  say,  darling  ? 

Mrs.  G.  I — I  don't  like  to,  after  that  voice. 
{Tremulously.)  Phil,  never  you  dare  to  speak  to 
me  in  that  tone,  whatever  I  may  do! 

Capt.  G.  My  poor  little  love!  Why,  you're 
shaking  all  over.     I  am  so  sorry.     Of  course  I 


The  Garden  of  Eden  91 

never  meant  to  upset  you.  Don't  tell  me  any- 
thing.    I'm  a  brute. 

Mrs.  G.  No,  you  aren't,  and  I  iiill  tell —  There 
was  a  man. 

Capt.  G.  {Lightly.)  Was  there?  Lucky 
man! 

Mrs.  G.  {In  a  whisper.)  And  I  thought  I 
cared  for  him. 

Capt.  G.     Still  luckier  man !    Well } 

Mrs.  G.  And  I  thought  1  cared  for  him — and  I 
didn't — and  then  you  came — and  I  cared  for  you 
very,  very  much  indeed.  That's  all.  {Face  hid- 
den.)    You  aren't  angry,  are  you  } 

Capt.  G.  Angry?  Not  in  the  least.  {Aside.) 
Good  Lord,  what  have  I  done  to  deserve  this 
angel  ? 

Mrs.  G.  {Aside.)  And  he  never  asked  for  the 
name!  How  funnymen  are!  But  perhaps  it's 
as  well. 

Capt.  G.  That  man  will  go  to  heaven  because 
you  once  thought  you  cared  for  him.  'Wonder 
if  you'll  ever  drag  me  up  there  ? 

Mrs.  G.     {Firmly.)     'Sha'n't  go  if  you  don't. 

Capt.  G.  Thanks.  I  say,  Pussy,  I  don't  know 
much  about  your  religious  beliefs.  You  were 
brought  up  to  believe  in  a  heaven  and  all  that, 
weren't  you  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Yes.  But  it  was  a  pincushion  heaven, 
with  hymn-books  in  all  the  pews. 


92  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Capt.  G.  {WcLgging  his  head'-dith  intense  con- 
viction.)   Nevermind.     There  is  a  ^//M^a  heaven. 

Mrs.  G.  Where  do  you  bring  that  message 
from,  my  prophet } 

Capt.  G.  Here!  Because  we  care  for  each 
other.     So  it's  all  right. 

Mrs.  G.  {As  a  troop  of  langiirs  crash  through 
the  branches.)  So  it's  all  right.  But  Darwin 
says  that  we  came  from  those  ! 

Capt.  G.  {Placidly.)  Ah!  Darwin  was  never 
in  love  with  an  angel.  That  settles  it.  Sstt,  you 
brutes!  Monkeys,  indeed!  You  shouldn't  read 
those  books. 

Mrs.  G.  {Folding  her  hands.)  If  it  pleases 
my  Lord  the  King  to  issue  proclamation. 

Capt.  G.  Don't,  dear  one.  There  are  no 
orders  between  us.  Only  I'd  rather  you  didn't. 
They  lead  to  nothing,  and  bother  people's  heads. 

Mrs.  G.     Like  your  first  engagement. 

Capt,  G.  ( With  an  immense  calm.)  That 
was  a  necessary  evil  and  led  to  you.  Are  you 
nothing  ? 

Mrs.  G.     Not  so  very  much,  am  I  } 

Capt.  G.     All  this  world  and  the  next  to  me. 

Mrs.  G.  {yery  softly.)  My  boy  of  boys! 
Shall  I  ItWyoii  something? 

Capt.  G.  Yes,  if  it's  not  dreadful — about 
other  men. 

Mrs.  G.     It's  about  my  own  bad  little  self. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  93 

Capt.  G.     Then  it  must  be  good.    Go  on,  dear. 

Mrs.  G.  (Slowly.)  I  don't  know  why  I'm 
telling  you,  Pip;  but  if  ever  you  marry  again  — 
(Inter hide.)  Take  your  hand  from  my  mouth  or 
ril  bi'tef  In  the  future,  then  remember — I  don't 
know  quite  how  to  put  it  I 

Capt.  G.  (Snorting  indignantly.)  Don't  try. 
''Marry  again,"  indeed! 

Mrs.  G.  I  must.  Listen,  my  husband.  Never, 
never,  never  tell  your  wife  anything  that  you  do 
not  wish  her  to  remember  and  think  over  all  her 
life.  Because  a  woman — yes,  I  am  a  woman — 
can't  forget. 

Capt.  G.     By  Jove,  how  do  you  know  that } 

Mrs.  G.  (Confusedly.)  I  don't.  I'm  only 
guessing.  I  am — I  was — a  silly  little  girl;  bull 
feel  that  I  know  so  much,  oh,  so  very  much  more 
than  you,  dearest.    To  begin  with,  I'm  your  wife. 

Capt.  G.     So  I  have  been  led  to  believe. 

Mrs.  G.  And  I  shall  want  to  know  every  one 
of  your  secrets — to  share  everything  you  know 
with  you.     (Stares  round  desperately.) 

Capt.  G.  So  you  shall,  dear,  so  you  shall — 
but  don't  look  like  that. 

Mrs.  G.  For  your  own  sake  don't  stop  me, 
Phil.  I  shall  never  talk  to  you  in  this  way  again. 
You  must  notXtW  me!  At  least,  not  now.  Later 
on,  when  I'm  an  old  matron  it  won't  matter,  but 
if  you  love  me,  be  very  good  to  me  now;  for 


94  The  Garden  of  Eden 

this  part  of  my  life  I  shall  never  forget!  Have  I 
made  you  understand  ? 

Capt.  G.  I  think  so,  child.  Have  I  said  any- 
thing yet  that  you  disapprove  of  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Will  you  be  very  angry  }  That — 
that  voice,  and  what  you  said  about  the  engage- 
ment— 

Capt.  G.  But  you  asked  to  be  told  that,  darl- 
ing. 

Mrs.  G.  And  thafs  why  you  shouldn't  have 
told  me!  You  must  be  the  judge,  and,  oh,  Pip, 
dearly  as  I  love  you,  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  help  you! 
I  shall  hinder  you,  and  you  must  judge  in  spite 
of  me! 

Capt.  G.  {Meditatively.)  We  have  a  great 
many  things  to  find  out  together,  God  help  us 
both — say  so,  Pussy — but  we  shall  understand 
each  other  better  every  day;  and  I  think  I'm  be- 
ginning to  see  now.  How  in  the  world  did  you 
come  to  know  just  the  importance  of  giving  me 
just  that  lead  ? 

Mrs.  G.  I've  told  you  that  I  ^o;?7  know.  Only 
somehow  it  seemed  that,  in  all  this  new  life,  I  was 
being  guided  for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Then  Mafflin  was  right! 
They  know,  and  we — we're  blind — all  of  us. 
{Lightly.)  'Getting  a  little  beyond  our  depth, 
dear,  aren't  we  ?  I'll  remember,  and,  if  I  fail,  let 
me  be  punished  as  I  deserve. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  95 

Mrs.  G.  There  shall  be  no  punishment.  We'll 
start  into  life  together  from  here — you  and  I— 
and  no  one  else. 

Capt.  G.  And  no  one  else.  {A  pause.)  Your 
eyelashes  are  all  wet,  Sweet  .^  V/as  there  ever 
such  a  quaint  little  Absurdity  } 

Mrs.  G.  Was  there  ever  such  nonsense  talked 
before  } 

Capt.  G.  (^Knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe.) 
Tisn't  what  we  say,  it's  what  we  don't  say,  that 
helps.  And  it's  all  the  profoundest  philosophy. 
But  no  one  would  understand — even  if  it  were 
put  into  a  book. 

Mrs.  G.  The  idea!  No — only  we  ourselves, 
or  people  like  ourselves — if  there  are  any  people 
like  us. 

Capt.  G.  (Magisterially.)  All  people,  not 
like  ourselves,  are  blind  idiots. 

Mrs.  G.  {Wiping  her  eyes.)  Do  you  think, 
then,  that  there  are  any  people  as  happy  as  we 
are? 

Capt.  G.  'Must  be — unless  we've  appropriated 
all  the  happiness  in  the  world. 

Mrs.  G.  (Looking  tou:ard  Simla.)  Poor  dears! 
Just  fancy  if  we  have! 

Capt.  G.  Then  we'll  hang  on  to  the  whole 
show,  for  it's  a  great  deal  too  jolly  to  lose — eh, 
wife  0'  mine  ? 

Mrs.  G.     O  Pip!     Pip!     How  much  of  you  is 


96  The  Garden  of  Eden 

a  solemn,  married  man  and  how  much  a  horrid, 
slangy  schoolboy  ? 

Capt.  G.  When  you  tell  me  how  much  of  you 
was  eighteen  last  birthday  and  how  much  is  as 
old  as  the  Sphinx  and  twice  as  mysterious,  per- 
haps I'll  attend  to  you.  Lend  me  that  banjo. 
The  spirit  moveth  me  to  jowl  at  the  sunset. 

Mrs.  G.  Mind!  It's  not  tuned.  Ah!  How 
that  jars. 

Capt.  G.  {Turning pegs.)  It's  amazingly  dif- 
ficult to  keep  a  banjo  to  proper  pitch. 

Mrs.  G.  It's  the  same  with  all  musical  instru- 
ments.    What  shall  it  be  ? 

Capt.  G.  *' Vanity,"  and  let  the  hills  hear. 
(Sings  through  the  first  and  half  of  the  second 
verse.  Turning  to  Mrs.  G.)  Now,  chorus! 
Sing,  Pussy! 

Both  Together.  {Con  brio,  to  the  horror  of 
the  monkeys  z:ho  are  settling  for  the  night.) — 

«  Vanity,  all  is  Vanity,"  said  Wisdom,  scorning  me  — 

I  clasped  my  true  Love's  tender  hand  and  answered 
frank  and  free — ee  : — 
"  If  this  be  Vanity  who'd  be  wise  ? 

If  this  be  Vanity  who'd  be  wise  ? 

If  this  be  Vanity  who'd  be  wi — ise 

(  Crescendo.)     Vanity  let  it  be  !  " 

Mrs.  G.     {Defiantly  to  the  grey  of  the  evening 
sky.)     "Vanity  let  it  be!  " 
Echo.     {From  the  fagoo  spur.)    Let  it  be! 


FATIMA 


FATIMA 

And  you  may  go  into  every  room  of  the  house  and  see 
everything  that  is  there,  but  into  the  Blue  Room  you  must  7iot 
go. —  The  Story  of  Blue  Beard. 

Scene. — The  Gadsbys'  bungalow  in  the  Plains. 
Time,  1 1  a.  m.  on  a  Sunday  morning.  Captain 
Gadsby,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  is  bending  over  a 
complete  set  of  Hussar's  equipment,  from  sad- 
dle to  picketing-rope,  which  is  neatly  spread 
over  the  floor  of  his  study.  He  is  smoking  an 
unclean  briar,  and  his  forehead  is  puckered 
with  thought. 

Capt.  G.  {To  himself ,  fingering  a  headstall.') 
Jack's  an  ass.  There's  enough  brass  on  this  to 
load  a  mule — and,  if  the  Americans  know  any- 
thing about  anything,  it  can  be  cut  down  to  a  bit 
only.  'Don't  want  the  watering-bridle,  either. 
Humbug! — Half  a  dozen  sets  of  chains  and  pul- 
leys for  one  horse!  Rot!  {Scratching  his  head.) 
Now,  let's  consider  it  all  over  from  the  beginning. 
By  Jove,  I've  forgotten  the  scale  of  weights! 
Ne"er  mind.  'Keep  the  bit  only,  and  eliminate 
every  boss  from  the  crupper  to  breastplate.  No 
breastplate  at  all.  Simple  leather  strap  across 
99 


100  Fatima 

the  breast — like  the  Russians.  Hi!  Jack  never 
thought  of  that! 

Mrs.  G.  (Entering  hastily,  her  hand  bound  in 
a  cloth.')  Oh,  Pip,  I've  scalded  my  hand  over 
that  horrid,  horrid  Tiparee  jam! 

Capt.  G.     {Absently.)    Eh!    Wha-at? 

Mrs.  G.  (With  round-eyed  reproach.)  I've 
scalded  it  aw-iu\\y\  Aren't  you  sorry  .^  And  I 
did  so  want  that  jam  to  jam  properly. 

Capt.  G.  Poor  little  woman!  Let  me  kiss  the 
place  and  make  it  well.  (Unrolling  bandage.) 
You  small  sinner!  Where's  that  scald  .^  I  can't 
see  it. 

Mrs.  G.  On  the  top  of  the  little  finger. 
There! — It's  a  most  'normous  big  burn! 

Capt.  G.  (Kissing  little  finger.)  Baby!  Let 
Hyder  look  after  the  jam.  You  know  I  don't 
care  for  sweets. 

Mrs.  G.     In-deed?— Pip! 

Capt.  G.  Not  of  that  kind,  anyhow.  And 
now  run  along,  Minnie,  and  leave  me  to  my  own 
base  devices.     I'm  busy. 

Mrs.  G.  (Calmly  settling  herself  in  long 
chair.)  So  I  see.  What  a  mess  you're  making! 
Why  have  you  brought  all  that  smelly  leather 
stuff  into  the  house  } 

Capt.  G.     To  play  with.    Do  you  mind,  dear } 

Mrs.  G.     Let  me  play  too.     I'd  like  it. 

Capt.  G.     I'm   afraid  you   wouldn't,   Pussy — 


Fatima  loi 

Don't  you  think  that  jam  will  burn,  or  whatever 
it  is  that  jam  does  when  it's  not  looked  after  by  a 
clever  little  housekeeper  ? 

Mrs.  G.  1  thought  you  said  Hyder  could  at- 
tend to  it.  I  left  him  in  the  veranda,  stirring— 
when  1  hurt  myself  so. 

Capt.  G.  {His  eye  returning  to  the  equipment.) 
Po-oor  little  woman!— Three  pounds  four  and 
seven  is  three  eleven,  and  that  can  be  cut  down 
to  two  eight,  with  just  a  lee-Wt  care,  without 
weakening  anything.  Farriery  is  all  rot  in  in- 
competent hands.  What's  the  use  of  a  shoe-case 
when  a  man's  scouting  ?  He  can't  stick  it  on 
with  a  lick — like  a  stamp — the  shoe  !     Skittles! 

iMRS.  G.  'What's  skittles.^  Pah!  What  is 
this  leather  cleaned  with  ? 

Capt.  G.  Cream  and  champagne  and —  Look 
here,  dear,  do  you  really  want  to  talk  to  me  about 
anything  important } 

Mrs.  G.  No.  I've  done  my  accounts,  and  I 
thought  I'd  like  to  see  what  you're  doing. 

Capt.  G.  Well,  love,  now  you've  seen  and — 
Would*  you  mind  ? —  That  is  to  say — Minnie,  I 
really  am  busy. 

Mrs.  G.     You  want  me  to  go  ? 

Capt.  G.  Yes,  dear,  for  a  little  while.  This 
tobacco  will  hang  in  your  dress,  and  saddlery 
doesn't  interest  you. 

Mrs.  G.     Everything  you  do  interests  me,  Pip. 


102  Fatima 

Capt.  G.  Yes,  I  know,  I  know,  dear.  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it  some  day  when  I've  put  a  head 
on  this  thing.     In  the  meantime  — 

Mrs.  G.  I'm  to  be  turned  out  of  the  room  like 
a  troublesome  child  } 

Capt.  G.  No-o.  I  don't  mean  that  exactly. 
But,  you  see,  1  shall  be  tramping  up  and  down, 
shifting  these  things  to  and  fro,  and  I  shall  be  in 
your  way.     Don't  you  think  so  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Can't  I  lift  them  about }  Let  me  try. 
(Reaches  forward  to  trooper's  saddle.) 

Capt.  G.  Good  gracious,  child,  don't  touch  it. 
You'll  hurt  yourself.  {Picking  up  saddle.)  Lit- 
tle girls  aren't  expected  to  handle  nttmdahs. 
Now,  where  would  you  like  it  put  ?  (Holds  sad- 
dle above  his  head.) 

Mrs.  G.  (A  break  in  her  voice.)  Nowhere. 
Pip,  how  good  you  are — and  how  strong!  Oh, 
what's  that  ugly  red  streak  inside  your  arm  } 

Capt.  G.  (Lowering  saddle  quickly.)  Noth-- 
ing.  It's  a  mark  of  sorts.  (Aside.)  And  Jack's 
coming  to  tiffin  v/ith  his  notions  all  cut  and 
dried! 

Mrs.  G.  I  know  it's  a  mark,  but  I've  never 
seen  it  before.  It  runs  all  up  the  arm.  What  is 
it.^ 

Capt.  G.     A  cut — if  you  want  to  know. 

Mrs.  G.  Want  to  know!  Oi  course  I  do!  I 
can't  have  my  husband  cut  to  pieces  in  this  way. 


Fatima  103 

How  did  it  come  ?  Was  it  an  accident  ?  Tell 
me,  Pip. 

Capt.  G.  {Grimly.)  No.  'Twasn't  an  acci- 
dent.    1  got  it — from  a  man — in  Afghanistan. 

Mrs.  G.  In  action  }  Oh,  Pip,  and  you  never 
told  me! 

Capt.  G.     I'd  forgotten  all  about  it. 

Mrs.  G.  Hold  up  your  arm!  What  a  horrid, 
ugly  scar!  Are  you  sure  it  doesn't  hurt  now! 
How  did  the  man  give  it  you! 

Capt.  G.  {Desperately  looking  at  his  watch.) 
With  a  knife.  I  came  down — old  Van  Loo  did, 
that's  to  say — and  fell  on  my  leg,  so  I  couldn't 
run.  And  then  this  man  came  up  and  began 
chopping  at  me  as  I  sprawled. 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  don't,  don't!  That's  enough! — 
Well,  what  happened  ? 

Capt.  G.  I  couldn't  get  to  my  holster,  and 
Mafflin  came  round  the  corner  and  stopped  the 
performance. 

Mrs.  G.  How  ?  He's  such  a  lazy  man,  I  don't 
believe  he  did. 

Capt.  G.  Don't  you  ?  I  don't  think  the  man 
had  much  doubt  about  it.     Jack  cut  his  head  off. 

Mrs.  G.  Cut — his — head — off!  "With  one 
blow,"  as  they  say  in  the  books  ? 

Capt.  G.  I'm  not  sure.  I  was  too  interested 
in  myself  to  know  much  about  it.  Anyhow,  the 
head  was  off,  and  Jack  was  punching  old  Van 


104  Fatima 

Loo  in  the  ribs  to  make  him  get  up.  Now  you 
know  all  about  it,  dear,  and  now  — 

Mrs.  G.  You  want  me  to  go,  of  course.  You 
never  told  me  about  this,  though  I've  been  mar- 
ried to  you  for  ez^er  so  long;  and  you  never  would 
have  told  me  if  1  hadn't  found  out;  and  you 
never  do  tell  me  anything  about  yourself,  or 
what  you  do,  or  what  you  take  an  interest  in. 

Capt.  G.  Darling,  I'm  always  with  you,  aren't 
I? 

Mrs.  G.  Always  in  my  pocket,  you  were  go- 
ing to  say.  I  know  you  are;  but  you  are  always 
thinking  away  from  me. 

Capt.  G.  (^Trying  to  hide  a  smile.)  Am  1 }  I 
wasn't  aware  of  it.     I'm  awf'ly  sorry. 

Mrs.  G.  (Piteously.)  Oh,  don't  make  fun  of 
me!  Pip,  you  know  what  I  mean.  When  you 
are  reading  one  of  those  things  about  Cavalry, 
by  that  idiotic  Prince — why  doesn't  he  be  a  Prince 
instead  of  a  stable-boy  ? 

Capt.  G.  Prince  Kraft  a  stable-boy —  Oh,  my 
Aunt!  Never  mind,  dear.  You  were  going  to 
say  ? 

Mrs.  G.  It  doesn't  matter;  you  don't  care  for 
what  I  say.  Only — only  you  get  up  and  walk 
about  the  room,  staring  in  front  of  you,  and  then 
Mafflin  comes  in  to  dinner,  and  after  I'm  in  the 
drawing-room  I  can  hear  you  and  him  talking, 
and  talking,  and  talking,  about  things  I  can't  un- 


Fatima 


105 


derstand,  and— oh,  I  get  so  tired  and  feel  so 
lonely! — I  don't  want  to  complain  and  be  a  trou- 
ble, Pip;  but  1  do — indeed  I  do  I 

Capt.  G.  My  poor  darling!  I  never  thought 
of  that.  Why  don't  you  ask  some  nice  people  in 
to  dinner  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Nice  people!  Where  am  I  to  find 
them  }  Horrid  frumps!  And  if  I  did,  I  shouldn't 
be  amused.     You  know  I  only  wsintyoiL 

Capt.  G.  And  you  have  me  surely.  Sweet- 
heart ? 

Mrs.  G.  I  have  not!  Pip,  why  don't  you 
take  me  into  your  life  ? 

Capt.  G.  More  than  I  do  ?  That  would  be 
difficult,  dear. 

Mrs.  G.  Yes,  I  suppose  it  would — to  you. 
I'm  no  help  to  you — no  companion  to  you;  and 
you  like  to  have  it  so. 

Capt.  G.  Aren't  you  a  little  unreasonable, 
Pussy  ? 

Mrs.  G.  (Stamping  her  foot.)  I'm  the  most 
reasonable  woman  in  the  world — when  I'm 
treated  properly. 

Capt.  G.  And  since  when  have  I  been  treat- 
ing you  improperly  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Always — and  since  the  beginning. 
You  know  you  have. 

Capt.  G.  I  don't;  but  I'm  willing  to  be  con- 
vinced. 


io6  Fatima 

Mrs.  G.     {Pointing  to  saddlery.)    There! 

Capt.  G.     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  G.  What  does  all  that  mean  ?  Why  am 
I  not  to  be  told  ?    Is  it  so  precious  } 

Capt.  G.  I  forget  its  exact  Government  value 
just  at  present.  It  means  that  it  is  a  great  deal 
too  heavy. 

Mrs.  G.     Then  why  do  you  touch  it  ? 

Capt.  G.  To  make  it  lighter.  See  here,  little 
love,  I've  one  notion  and  Jack  has  another,  but  we 
are  both  agreed  that  all  this  equipment  is  about 
thirty  pounds  too  heavy.  The  thing  is  how  to 
cut  it  down  without  weakening  any  part  of  it, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  allowing  the  trooper  to 
carry  everything  he  wants  for  his  own  comfort 
— socks  and  shirts  and  things  of  that  kind. 

Mrs.  G.  Why  doesn't  he  pack  them  in  a  little 
trunk  ? 

Capt.  G.  (Kissing  her.)  Oh,  you  darling! 
Pack  them  in  a  little  trunk,  indeed!  Hussars 
don't  carry  trunks,  and  it's  a  most  important 
thing  to  make  the  horse  do  all  the  carrying. 

Mrs.  G.  But  why  need  you  bother  about  it  ? 
You're  not  a  trooper. 

Capt.  G.  No;  but  I  command  a  few  score  of 
him;  and  equipment  is  nearly  everything  in  these 
days. 

Mrs.  G.     More  than  me? 

Capt.  G.     Stupid!     Of  course  not;  but  it's  a 


Fatima  107 

matter  that  I'm  tremendously  interested  in,  because 
if  I  or  Jack,  or  I  and  Jack,  work  out  some  sort  of 
lighter  saddlery  and  all  that,  it's  possible  that  we 
may  get  it  adopted. 

Mrs.  G.     How  } 

Capt.  G.  Sanctioned  at  Home,  where  they 
will  make  a  sealed  pattern — a  pattern  that  all  the 
saddlers  must  copy — and  so  it  will  be  used  by  all 
the  regiments. 

Mrs.  G.     And  that  interests  you  } 

Capt.  G.  It's  part  of  my  profession,  y'know, 
and  my  profession  is  a  good  deal  to  me.  Every- 
thing in  a  soldier's  equipment  is  important,  and 
if  we  can  improve  that  equipment,  so  much  the 
better  for  the  soldiers  and  for  us. 

Mrs.  G.     Who's  ''us"  ? 

Capt.  G.  Jack  and  I;  only  Jack's  notions  are 
too  radical.     What's  that  big  sigh  for,  Minnie  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  nothing — and  you've  kept  all 
this  a  secret  from  me!     Why  ? 

Capt.  G.  Not  a  secret,  exactly,  dear.  I  didn't 
say  anything  about  it  to  you  because  I  didn't 
think  it  would  amuse  you. 

Mrs.  G.     And  am  I  only  made  to  be  amused  ? 

Capt.  G.  No,  of  course.  I  merely  mean  that 
it  couldn't  interest  you. 

Mrs.  G.  It's  your  work  and — and  if  you'd  let 
me,  I'd  count  all  these  things  up.  If  they  are  too 
heavy,  you   know  by  how  much  they  are  too 


io8  Fatima 

heavy,  and  you  must  have  a  list  of  things  made 
out  to  your  scale  of  lightness,  and  — 

Capt.  G.  I  have  got  both  scales  somewhere 
in  my  head;  but  it's  hard  to  tell  how  light  you 
can  make  a  headstall,  for  instance,  until  youVe 
actually  had  a  model  made. 

Mrs.  G.  But  if  you  read  out  the  list,  I  could 
copy  it  down,  and  pin  it  up  there  just  above  your 
table.     Wouldn't  that  do  } 

Capt.  G.  It  would  be  awfly  nice,  dear,  but  it 
would  be  giving  you  trouble  for  nothing.  I  can't 
work  that  way.  I  go  by  rule  of  thumb.  I  know 
the  present  scale  of  weights,  and  the  other  one — 
the  one  that  I'm  trying  to  work  to — will  shift  and 
vary  so  much  that  I  couldn't  be  certain,  even  if  I 
wrote  it  down. 

Mrs.  G.  I'm  so  sorry.  I  thought  I  might  help. 
Is  there  anything  else  that  I  could  be  of  use  in  } 

Capt.  G.  {Looking  round  the  room.)  I  can't 
think  of  anything.  You're  always  helping  me, 
you  know. 

Mrs.  G.     Am  I  ?    How  ? 

Capt.  G.  You  are  you  of  course,  and  as  long 
as  you're  near  me — 1  can't  explain  exactly,  but 
it's  in  the  air. 

Mrs.  G.  And  that's  why  you  wanted  to  send 
me  away  ? 

Capt.  G.  That's  only  when  I'm  trying  to  do 
work — grubby  work  like  this. 


Fatima  109 

Mrs.  G.     Maffiin's  better,  then,  isn't  he  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Rashly.)  Of  course  he  is.  Jack 
and  I  have  been  thinking  along  the  same  groove 
for  two  or  three  years  about  this  equipment.  It's 
our  hobby,  and  it  may  really  be  useful  some 
day. 

Mrs.  G.  {After  a  pause.)  And  that's  all  that 
you  have  away  from  me  } 

Capt.  G.  It  isn't  very  far  away  from  you 
now.  Take  care  the  oil  on  that  bit  doesn't  come 
off  on  your  dress. 

Mrs.  G.  I  wish — I  wish  so  much  that  I  could 
really  help  you.  I  believe  1  could — if  I  left  the 
room.     But  that's  not  what  I  mean. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Give  me  patience!  I  wish 
she  would  go.  {Aloud.)  I  assure  you  you  can't 
do  anything  for  me,  Minnie,  and  I  must  really 
settle  down  to  this.     Where's  my  pouch  ? 

Mrs.  G.  {Crossing  to  uritiug-table.)  Here 
you  are,  Bear.  What  a  mess  you  keep  your 
table  in! 

Capt.  G.  Don't  touch  it.  There's  a  method 
in  my  madness,  though  you  mightn't  think  of  it. 

Mrs.  G.  {At  table.)  I  want  to  look —  Do 
you  keep  accounts,  Pip  } 

Capt.  G.  {Bending over  saddlery.)  Of  a  sort. 
Are  you  rummaging  among  the  Troop  papers  } 
Be  careful. 

Mrs.   G.     Why.^    I   sha'n't  disturb  anything. 


1 10  Fatima 

Good  gracious!  I  had  no  idea  that  you  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  so  many  sick  horses. 

Capt.  G.  'Wish  I  hadn't,  but  they  insist  on 
falling  sick.  Minnie,  if  1  were  you  I  really  should 
not  investigate  those  papers.  You  may  come 
across  something  that  you  won't  like. 

Mrs.  G.  Why  will  you  always  treat  me  like 
a  child  }  I  know  I'm  not  displacing  the  horrid 
things. 

Capt.  G.  {Resignedly.')  Very  well,  then. 
Don't  blame  me  if  anything  happens.  Play 
with  the  table  and  let  me  go  on  with  the  sad- 
dlery. {Slipping  hand  into  trousers-pocket.)  Oh, 
the  deuce! 

Mrs.  G.     {Her  back  to  G.)     What's  that  for  } 

Capt.  G.  Nothing.  {Aside.)  There's  not 
much  in  it,  but  I  wish  I'd  torn  it  up. 

Mrs.  G.  {Turning  over  contents  of  table.)  I 
know  you'll  hate  me  for  this;  but  I  do  want  to 
see  what  your  work  is  like.  {A  pause.)  Pip, 
what  are  "farcy-buds  "  } 

Capt.  G.  Hah!  Would  you  really  like  to 
know  }    They  aren't  pretty  things. 

Mrs.  G.  This  Journal  of  Veterinary  Science 
says  they  are  of  "absorbing  interest."    Tell  me. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  It  may  turn  her  attention. 
Gives  a  long  and  designedly  loathsome 
account  of  glanders  and  far c^. 

Mrs.  G.     Oh,  that's  enough.     Don't  go  on! 


Fatima  1 1 1 

Capt.  G.  But  you  wanted  to  know —  Then 
these  things  suppurate  and  matterate  and  spread  — 

Mrs.  G.  Pip,  you're  making  me  sick!  You're 
a  horrid,  disgusting  schoolboy. 

Capt.  G.  (O/^  his  knees  among  the  bridles.) 
You  asked  to  be  told.  It's  not  my  fault  if  you 
worry  me  into  talking  about  horrors. 

Mrs.  G.     Why  didn't  you  say — No  } 

Capt.  G.  Good  Heavens,  child!  Have  you 
come  in  here  simply  to  bully  me  .^ 

Mrs.  G.  I  buWy you?  How  could  I!  You're 
so  strong.  {Hysterically.)  Strong  enough  to 
pick  me  up  and  put  me  outside  the  door  and 
leave  me  there  to  cry.     Aren't  you  } 

Capt.  G.  It  seems  to  me  that  you're  an  irra- 
tional little  baby.     Are  you  quite  well  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Do  I  look  ill  ?  {Returning  to  table.) 
Who  is  your  lady  friend  with  the  big  grey  envel- 
ope and  the  fat  monogram  outside  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Then  it  wasn't  locked 
up,  confound  it.  {Aloud.)  "God  made  her, 
therefore  let  her  pass  for  a  woman."  You  re- 
member what  farcy-buds  are  like  } 
'  Mrs.  G.  {Showing  envelope.)  This  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  tlieni.  I'm  going  to  open  it. 
May  I  ? 

Capt.  G.  Certainly,  if  you  want  to.  I'd 
sooner  you  didn't,  though.  I  don't  ask  to  look 
at  your  letters  to  the  Deercourt  girl. 


1 1 2  Fatima 

Mrs.  G.  You'd  better  not,  Sir!  {Takes  letter 
from  envelope.)  Now,  may  I  look?  If  you  say 
no,  I  shall  cry. 

Capt.  G.  You've  never  cried  in  my  knowledge 
of  you,  and  I  don't  believe  you  could. 

Mrs.  G.  1  feel  very  like  it  to-day,  Pip. 
Don't  be  hard  on  me.  {Reads  letter.)  It  begins 
in  the  middle,  without  any  "Dear  Captain 
Gadsby,"  or  anything.     How  funny! 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  No,  it's  not  Dear  Captain 
Gadsby,  or  anything,  now.     How  funny! 

Mrs.  G.  "What  a  strange  letter!  (Reads.) 
"And  so  the  moth  has  come  too  near  the  candle 
at  last,  and  has  been  singed  into — shall  1  say  Re- 
spectability ?  1  congratulate  him,  and  hope  he 
will  be  as  happy  as  he  deserves  to  be."  What 
does  that  mean  ?  Is  she  congratulating  you 
about  our  marriage  ? 

Capt.  G.     Yes,  I  suppose  so. 

Mrs.  G.  (Still  reading  letter.)  She  seems  to 
be  a  particular  friend  of  yours. 

Capt.  G.  Yes.  She  was  an  excellent  matron 
of  sorts — a  Mrs.  Herriott — wife  of  a  Colonel  Her- 
riott.  I  used  to  know  some  of  her  people  at 
Home  long  ago — before  1  came  out. 

Mrs.  G.  Some  Colonels'  wives  are  young 
— as  young  as  me.  I  knew  one  who  was 
younger. 

Capt.   G.     Then  it   couldn't  have  been   Mrs. 


Fatima  113 

Herriott.  She  was  old  enough  to  have  been 
your  mother,  dear. 

Mrs.  G.  I  remember  now.  Mrs.  Scargill  was 
talking  about  her  at  the  Duffins'  tennis,  before 
you  came  for  me,  on  Tuesday.  Captain  Mafflin 
said  she  was  a  "dear  old  woman."  Do  you 
know,  I  think  Mafflin  is  a  very  clumsy  man  with 
his  feet. 

Capt.  G.  (Aside.)  Good  old  Jack'  (Aioiuf.) 
Why,  dear.^ 

Mrs.  G.  He  had  put  his  cup  down  on  the 
ground  then,  and  he  literally  stepped  into  it. 
Some  of  the  tea  spirted  over  my  dress — the  grey 
one.     I  meant  to  tell  you  about  it  before. 

Capt.  G.  (Aside.)  There  are  the  makings  of 
a  strategist  about  Jack,  though  his  methods  are 
coarse.  (Aloud.)  You'd  better  get  a  new  dress, 
then.  (Aside.)  Let  us  pray  that  that  will  turn 
her. 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  it  isn't  stained  in  the  least.  I 
only. thought  that  I'd  tell  you.  (Retiiniiiig  to 
letter.)  ^F/?^7/ an  extraordinary  person!  (Reads.) 
"But  need  I  remind  you  that  you  have  taken 
upon  yourself  a  charge  of  wardship  " — what  in 
the  world  is  a  charge  of  wardship  } — "  which,  as 
you  yourself  know,  may  end  in  Consequences  " — 

Capt.  G.  (Aside.)  It's  safest  to  let  'em  see 
everything  as  they  come  across  it;  but  'seems  to 
me  that  there  are  exceptions  to  the  rule.    (Aloud.) 


1 14  Fatima 

I  told  you  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained 
from  rearranging  my  table. 

Mrs.  G.  {Absently.)  What  does  the  woman 
mean  }  She  goes  on  talking  about  Consequences 
—  "almost  inevitable  Consequences"  with  a 
capital  C — for  half  a  page.  {Flushing  scarlet.) 
Oh,  good  gracious!     How  abominable! 

Capt.  G.  {Promptly.)  Do  you  think  so? 
Doesn't  it  show  a  sort  of  motherly  interest  in  us  ? 
(Aside.)  Thank  Heaven,  Harry  always  wrapped 
her  meaning  up  safely!  {Aloud.)  Is  it  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  go  on  with  the  letter,  darling  ? 

Mrs.  G.  It's  impertinent — it's  simply  horrid. 
What  right  has  this  woman  to  write  in  this  way 
to  you  ?    She  oughtn't  to. 

Capt.  G.  When  you  write  to  the  Deercourt 
girl,  I  notice  that  you  generally  fill  three  or  four 
sheets.  Can't  you  let  an  old  woman  babble  on 
paper  once  in  a  way?    She  means  well. 

Mrs.  G.  I  don't  care.  She  shouldn't  write, 
and  if  she  did,  you  ought  to  have  shown  me  her 
letter. 

Capt.  G.  Can't  you  understand  why  I  kept  it 
to  myself,  or  must  I  explain  at  length — as  I  ex- 
plained the  farcy-buds  ? 

Mrs.  G.  (Furiously.)  Pip  I  hate  you!  This  is 
as  bad  as  those  idiotic  saddle-bags  on  the  floor. 
Never  mind  whether  it  would  please  me  or  not, 
you  ought  to  have  given  it  to  me  to  read. 


Fatima  1 1 5 

Capt.  G.  It  comes  to  the  same  thing.  You 
took  it  yourself. 

Mrs.  G.  Yes,  but  if  I  hadn't  taken  it,  you 
wouldn't  have  said  a  word.  1  think  this  Harriet 
Herriott — it's  like  a  name  in  a  book — is  an  inter- 
fering old  Thing. 

Capt.  G.  (^Aside.)  So  long  as  you  thoroughly 
understand  that  she  is  old,  I  don't  much  care 
what  you  think.  {Aloud.)  Very  good,  dear. 
Would  you  like  to  write  and  tell  her  so  ?  She's 
seven  thousand  miles  away. 

Mrs.  G.  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  her,  but  you  ought  to  have  told  me.  {Turn- 
ing to  last  page  of  letter.)  And  she  patronizes 
me,  too.  /'ve  never  seen  her!  {Reads.)  "1  do 
not  know  how  the  world  stands  with  you;  in  all 
human  probability  I  shall  never  know;  but  what- 
ever I  may  have  said  before,  1  pray  for  her  sake 
more  than  for  yours  that  all  may  be  well.  I  have 
learned  what  misery  means,  and  1  dare  not  wish 
that  any  one  dear  to  you  should  share  my  knowl- 
edge." 

Capt.  G.  Good  God!  Can't  you  leave  that 
letter  alone,  or,  at  least,  can't  you  refrain 
from  reading  it  aloud  }  I've  been  through  it 
once.  Put  it  back  on  the  desk.  Do  you  hear 
me  } 

Mrs.  G.  (Irresolutely.)  I  sh — sha'n't!  (Looks 
at  G.'s  eyes.)     Oh,  Pip,  please!    I  didn't  mean  to 


Ii6  Fatima 

make  you  angry —    'Deed,  I  didn't.     Pip,  I'm  so 
sorry.     I  know  I've  wasted  your  time  — 

Capt.  G.  {Grimly.)  You  have.  Now,  will 
you  be  good  enough  to  go — if  there  is  nothing 
more  in  my  room  that  you  are  anxious  to  pry 
into  } 

Mrs.  G.  {Putting  out  her  hands.)  Oh,  Pip, 
don't  look  at  me  like  that!  I've  never  seen  you 
look  like  that  before  and  it  hu-urts  me!  I'm 
sorry.  I  oughtn't  to  have  been  here  at  all,  and 
— and — and — {sobbing).  Oh,  be  good  to  me! 
Be  good  to  me!  There's  only  you — anywhere! 
Breaks  down  in  long  chair,  hiding  face  in 
cushions. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  She  doesn't  know  how 
she  flicked  me  on  the  raw.  {Aloud,  bending 
over  chair.)  I  didn't  mean  to  be  harsh,  dear — I 
didn't  really.  You  can  stay  here  as  long  as  you 
please,  and  do  what  you  please.  Don't  cry  like 
that.  You'll  make  yourself  sick.  {Aside.) 
What  on  earth  has  come  over  her?  {Aloud.) 
Darling,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ^ 

Mrs.  G.  {Her  face  still  hidden.)  Let  me  go 
■ — let  me  go  to  my  own  room.  Only — only  say 
you  aren't  angry  with  me. 

Capt.  G.  Angry  with  you,  love!  Of  course 
not.  I  was  angry  with  myself.  I'd  lost  my 
temper  over  the  saddlery —  Don't  hide  your 
face.  Pussy.     I  want  to  kiss  it. 


Fatima  117 

Bends  lower,  Mrs.  G.  slides  right  arm 
round  his  neck.  Several  interludes  and 
much  sobbing. 

Mrs.  G.  (///  a  whisper.^  I  didn't  mean  about 
the  jam  when  I  came  in  to  tell  you  — 

Capt.  G.  Bother  the  jam  and  the  equipment! 
{Interlude.') 

Mrs.  G.  (Still  more  faintly.)  My  fmger 
wasn't  scalded  at  all.  I — I  wanted  to  speak  to 
you  about — about — something  else,  and — I  didn't 
know  how. 

Capt.  G.  Speak  away,  then.  {Looking  into 
her  eyes.)  Eh!  Wha — at.^  Minnie!  Here, 
don't  go  away!     You  don't  mean  } 

Mrs.  G.  {Hysterically,  backing  to  portiere  and 
hiding  her  face  in  its  folds.)  The — the  Almost 
Inevitable  Consequences !  {Flits  through  portiere 
as  G.  attempts  to  catch  her,  and  bolts  herself  in 
her  own  room.) 

Capt.  G.  {His  arms  full  of  portiere.)  Oh! 
{Sitting  down  heavily  in  chair.)  I'm  a  brute — a 
pig — a  bully,  and  a  blackguard.  My  poor,  poor 
little  darling!     "  Made  to  be  amused  only  } " — 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

Knowing  Good  and  Evil. 

Scene. — The  Gadsbys'  bungalow  in  the  Plains,  in 
June.    Punkah-coolies  asleep  in  -veranda  where 
Captain  Gadsby  is  walking  up  and  down.    Doc- 
tor's trap  in  porch.     Junior  Chaplain  drifting 
generally   and    uneasily    through    the   house. 
Time,  3.40.  a.  m.     Heat  94°  in  veranda. 
Doctor.     {Coming  into  veranda  and  touching 
G.  on  the  shoulder.)     You  had  better  go  in  and 
see  her  now. 

Capt.  G.  {The  color  of  good  cigar-ash.')  Eh, 
wha-at  }  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  What  did  you  say  ? 
Doctor.  {Syllable  by  syllable.)  Go — in — to 
— the — room — and — see — her.  She  wants  to 
speak  to  you.  {Aside,  testily.)  I  shall  have 
him  on  my  hands  next. 

Junior  Chaplain.      {In    half-lighted    dining- 
room.)    Isn't  there  any  ?  — 
Doctor.     {Savagely.)    Hsh,  you  little  fool! 
Junior  Chaplain.       Let    me    do    my    work. 
Gadsby,  stop  a  minute!     {Edges  after  G.) 

Doctor.    Wait  till  she  sends  for  you  at  least — 
at  least.     Man  alive,  he'll  kill  you  if  you  go  in 
there!     What  are  you  bothering  him  for  ? 
121 


122  The  Galley  of  the  Shadow 

Junior  Chaplain.  (^Coming  into  veranda.)  I've 
given  him  a  stiff  brandy-peg.  He  wants  it. 
You've  forgotten  him  for  the  last  ten  hours  and 
— forgotten  yourself  too. 

G.  enters  bedroom,  which  is  lit  by  one 
night-lamp.  Ayah  on  the  floor  pre- 
tending to  be  asleep. 

Voice.  {From  the  bed.)  All  down  the  street 
— such  bonfires!  Ayah,  go  and  put  them  out! 
(Appealingly.)  How  can  I  sleep  with  an  instal- 
lation of  the  CLE.  in  my  room  ?  No — not  CLE. 
Something  else.     JVhat  was  it  ? 

Capt.  G.  (Trying  to  control  his  voice.)  Min- 
nie, I'm  here.  (Bending  over  bed.)  Don't  you 
know  me,  Minnie  ?  It's  me — it's  Phil — it's  your 
husband. 

Voice.  (Mechanically.)  It's  me — it's  Phil — 
it's  your  husband. 

Capt.  G.  She  doesn't  know  me! —  It's  your 
own  husband,  darling. 

Voice.     Your  own  husband,  darling. 

Ayah.  (With  an  inspiration.)  Memsahib 
understanding  all  /  saying. 

Capt.  G.  Make  her  understand  me  then — 
quick! 

Ayah.  (Hand  on  Mrs.  G.'s  forehead.)  Mem- 
sahib!    Captain  Sahib  here. 

Voice.  Salam  do.  (Fretfully.)  I  know  I'm 
not  fit  to  be  seen. 


The  y alley  of  the  Shadow  123 

Ayah.  {Aside  to  G.)  Say  '' martieen"  ssivne 
as  breakfash, 

Capt.  G.  Good-morning,  little  woman.  How 
are  we  to-day  ? 

Voice.  That's  Phil.  Poor  old  Phil.  (K/- 
cioiisly.)  Phil,  you  fool,  I  can't  see  you.  Come 
nearer. 

Capt.  G.  Minnie!  Minnie!  It's  me — you 
know  mie  ? 

Voice.  {Mockingly.)  Of  course  I  do.  Who 
does  not  know  the  man  who  was  so  cruel  to  his 
wife — almost  the  only  one  he  ever  had  } 

Capt.  G.  Yes,  dear.  Yes — of  course,  of 
course.  But  Vv^on't  you  speak  to  him }  He 
wants  to  speak  to  you  so  much. 

Voice.  They'd  never  let  him  in.  The  Doctor 
would  give  da^'iva^a  bund  even  if  he  were  in  the 
house.  He'll  never  come.  (Despairingly.)  O 
judas!    Judas!    Judas! 

Capt.  G.  (Putting  out  his  arms.)  They  have 
let  him  in,  and  he  always  was  in  the  house.  Oh, 
my  love — don't  you  know  me  ? 

Voice.  (In  a  half  chant.)  "And  it  came  to 
pass  at  the  eleventh  hour  that  this  poor  soul  re- 
pented." It  knocked  at  the  gates,  but  they  were 
shut — tight  as  a  plaster — a  great,  burning  plaster. 
They  had  pasted  our  marriage  certificate  all  across 
the  door,  and  it  was  made  of  red-hot  iron — peo- 
ple really  ought  to  be  more  careful,  you  know. 


124  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

Capt.  G.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  ( Takes  her  in 
his  arms.)    Minnie!  speak  to  me — to  Phil. 

Voice.  What  shall  I  say  ?  Oh,  tell  me  what 
to  say  before  it's  too  late!  They  are  all  going 
away  and  I  can't  say  anything. 

Capt.  G.  Say  you  know  me!  Only  say  you 
know  me! 

Doctor.  (IVho  has  entered  quietly.')  For 
pity's  sake  don't  take  it  too  much  to  heart, 
Gadsby.  It's  this  way  sometimes.  They  won't 
recognize.  They  say  all  sorts  of  queer  things — 
don't  you  see  ? 

Capt.  G.  All  right!  All  right!  Go  away 
now;  she'll  recognize  me;  you're  bothering  her. 
She  mtcst — mustn't  she  ? 

Doctor.  She  will  before —  Have  I  your  leave 
to  try  ?  — 

Capt.  G.  Anything  you  please,  so  long  as 
she'll  know  me.  It's  only  a  question  of — hours, 
isn't  it  ? 

Doctor.  (Professionally.)  While  there's  life 
there's  hope,  y'know.     But  don't  build  on  it. 

Capt.  G.  I  don't.  Pull  her  together  if  it's 
possible.  (Aside.)  What  have  I  done  to  de- 
serve this  ? 

Doctor.  (Bending  over  bed.)  Now,  Mrs. 
Gadsby!  We  shall  be  all  right  to-morrow.  You 
must  take  it,  or  I  sha'n't  let  Phil  see  you.  It  isn't 
nasty,  is  it  ? 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  125 

Voice.  Medicines!  Always  more  medicines! 
Can't  you  leave  me  alone  ? 

Capt.  G.     Oh,  leave  her  in  peace,  Doc! 

Doctor.  {Stepping  hack, — aside.)  May  1  be 
forgiven  if  I've  done  wrong.  {Aloud.)  In  a  few 
minutes  she  ought  to  be  sensible;  but  I  daren't 
tell  you  to  look  for  anything.     It's  only  — 

Capt.  G.     What }    Go  on,  man. 

Doctor.  {In  a  wJiisper.)  Forcing  the  last 
rally. 

Capt   G.     Then  leave  us  alone. 

Doctor.  Don't  mind  what  she  says  at  first,  if 
you  can.  They — they — they  turn  against  those 
they  love  most  sometimes  in  this. — It's  hard, 
but  — 

Capt.  G.  Am  I  her  husband  or  are  you  ? 
Leave  us  alone  for  what  time  we  have  to- 
gether. 

Voice.  {Confidentially.)  And  we  were  en- 
gaged quite  suddenly,  Emma.  I  assure  you  that 
I  never  thought  of  it  for  a  moment:  but,  oh,  my 
little  Me! — I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done 
if  he  hadn't  proposed. 

Capt.  G.  She  thinks  of  that  Deercourt  girl  be- 
fore she  thinks  of  me.     {Aloud.)     Minnie! 

Voice.  Not  from  the  shops.  Mummy  dear. 
You  can  get  the  real  leaves  from  Kaintu,  and 
{laughing  weakly)  never  mind  about  the  blossoms 
— Dead  white  silk  is  only  fit  for  widows,  and  1 


126  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

-won't  wear  it.  It's  as  bad  as  a  winding  sheet. 
(y4  long  pause.') 

Capt.  G.  I  never  asked  a  favor  yet.  If  there, 
is  anybody  to  listen  to  me,  let  her  know  me — 
even  if  I  die  too ! 

Voice.     {Very  faintly.)     Pip,  Pip  dear. 

Capt.  G.     I'm  here,  darling. 

Voice.  What  has  happened?  They've  been 
bothering  me  so  with  medicines  and  things,  and 
they  wouldn't  let  you  come  and  see  me.  I  was 
never  ill  before.     Am  I  ill  now  ? 

Capt.  G.     You — you  aren't  quite  well. 

Voice.     How  funny!    Have  I  been  ill  long ? 

Capt.  G.  Some  day;  but  you'll  be  all  right  in 
a  little  time. 

Voice.  Do  you  think  so,  Pip  ?  I  don't  feel 
well  and —  Oh !  what  have  they  done  to  my  hair  } 

Capt.  G.     I  d-d-don't  know. 

Voice.     They've  cut  it  off.     What  a  shame! 

Capt.  G.  It  must  have  been  to  make  your 
head  cooler. 

Voice.  Just  like  a  boy's  wig.  Don't  I  look 
horrid  ? 

Capt.  G.  Never  looked  prettier  in  your  life, 
dear.  {Aside.)  How  am  I  to  ask  her  to  say 
good-bye  ? 

Voice.  I  don't /^^/  pretty.  1  feel  very  ill.  My 
heart  won't  work.  It's  nearly  dead  inside  me, 
and  there's  a  funny  feeling  in  my  eyes.     Every- 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  127 

thing  seems  the  same  distance — you  and  the  al- 
mirah  and  the  table — inside  my  eyes  or  miles 
away.  What  does  it  mean,  Pip  ? 
•  Capt.  G.  You're  a  little  feverish,  Sweetheart 
—very  feverish.  (Breaking  down.)  My  love! 
my  love!     How  can  I  let  you  go  .^ 

Voice.  I  thought  so.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
that  at  first } 

Capt.  G.     What  ? 

Voice.     That  I  am  going  to — die. 

Capt.  G.     But  you  aren't!     You  sha'n't. 

Ayah  to  punkah-coolie.  {Stepping  into  veranda 
after  a  glance  at  the  bed.)  Punkah  chor  do! 
(Stop  pulling  the  punkah.) 

Voice.  It's  hard,  Pip.  So  very,  very  hard  after 
one  year — ^just  one  year.  (IVailing.)  And  I'm 
only  twenty.  Most  girls  aren't  even  married  at 
twenty.  Can't  they  do  anything  to  help  me  ?  I 
don't  want  to  die. 

Capt.  G.     Hush,  dear.    You  won't. 

Voice.  What's  the  use  of  talking  ?  Help  me! 
You've  never  failed  me  yet.  Oh,  Phil,  help  me 
to  keep  alive.  {Feverishly.)  I  don't  believe  you 
wish  me  to  live.  You  weren't  a  bit  sorry  when 
that  horrid  Baby  thing  died.     I  wish  I'd  killed  it! 

Capt.  G.  {Drawing  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head.) Its  more  than  a  man's  meant  to  bear — it's 
not  right.  {Aloud.)  Minnie,  love,  I'd  die  for 
you  if  it  would  help. 


128  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

Voice.  No  more  death.  There's  enough  al- 
ready.    Pip,  diOXiXyou  die  too. 

Capt.  G.     I  wish  I  dared. 

Voice.  It  says  :  '*  Till  Death  do  us  part." 
Nothing  after  that — and  so  it  would  be  no  use. 
It  stops  at  the  dying.  Why  does  it  stop  there  } 
Only  such  a  very  short  life,  too.  Pip,  I'm  sorry 
we  married. 

Capt.  G.     No!     Anything  but  that,  Min! 

Voice.  Because  you'll  forget  and  I'll  forget. 
Oh,  Pip,  don't  forget!  I  always  loved  you,  though 
I  was  cross  sometimes.  If  I  ever  did  anything 
that  you  didn't  like,  say  you  forgive  me  now. 

Capt.  G.  You  never  did,  darling.  On  my 
soul  and  honor  you  never  did.  I  haven't  a  thing 
to  forgive  you. 

Voice.  I  sulked  for  a  whole  week  about  those 
petunias.  {With  a  laugh.)  What  a  little  wretch 
I  was,  and  how  grieved  you  were!  Forgive  me 
that,  Pip. 

.  Capt.  G.  There's  nothing  to  forgive.  It  was 
my  fault.  They  were  too  near  the  drive.  For 
God's  sake  don't  talk  so,  Minnie!  There's  such 
a  lot  to  say  and  so  little  time  to  say  it  in. 

Voice.  Say  that  you'll  always  love  me — until 
the  end. 

Capt.  G.  Until  the  end.  {Carried  away.)  It's 
a  lie.  It  must  be,  because  we've  loved  each 
other.    This  isn't  the  end. 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  129 

Voice.  {Relapsing  into  semi'deliriiim.')  My 
Church-service  has  an  ivory-cross  on  the  back, 
and  it  says  so,  so  it  must  be  true.  ''Till  Death 
do  us  part." — But  that's  a  lie.  {With  a  parody 
of  G.'s  manner.)  A  damned  lie!  (Recklessly.) 
Yes,  I  can  swear  as  well  as  Trooper  Pip.  I  can't 
make  my  head  think,  though.  That's  because 
they  cut  off  my  hair.  How  can  one  think  with 
one's  head  all  fuzzy  ?  {Pleadingly.)  Hold  me, 
Pip!  Keep  me  with  you  always  and  always. 
{Relapsing.)  But  if  you  marry  the  Thorniss  girl 
when  I'm  dead,  I'll  come  back  and  howl  under 
our  bedroom  window  all  night.  Oh,  bother! 
You'll  think  I'm  a  jackal.  Pip,  what  time  is 
it? 

Capt.  G.     a  little  before  the  dawn,  dean 

Voice.  I  wonder  where  I  shall  be  this  time  to- 
morrow ? 

Capt.  G.     Would  you  like  to  see  the  Padre  ? 

Voice.  Why  should  I  .^  He'd  tell  me  that  I  am 
going  to  heaven;  and  that  wouldn't  be  true,  be- 
cause you  are  here.  Do  you  recollect  when  he 
upset  the  cream-ice  all  over  his  trousers  at  the 
Gassers'  tennis  ? 

Capt.  G.     Yes,  dear. 

Voice.  I  often  wondered  whether  he  got  an- 
other pair  of  trousers;  but  then  his  are  so  shiny 
all  over  that  you  really  couldn't  tell  unless  you 
were  told.     Let's  call  him  in  and  ask. 


1 30  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

Capt.  G.  {Gravely.)  No.  I  don't  think  he'd 
like  that.     'Your  head  comfy,  Sweetheart  ? 

Voice.  (^Faintly  uith  a  sigh  of  contentment.) 
Yeth!  Gracious,  Pip,  when  <:7/'i/ you  shave  last  .^ 
Your  chin's  worse  than  the  barrel  of  a  musical 
box. — No,  don't  lift  it  up.  I  like  it.  {A  pause.) 
You  said  you've  never  cried  at  all.  You're  crying 
all  over  my  cheek. 

Capt.  G.     I — I — I  can't  help  it,  dear. 

Voice.  How  funny!  1  couldn't  cry  now  to 
save  my  life.     (G.  shivers.)    I  want  to  sing. 

Capt.  G.  "Won't  it  tire  you  }  'Better  not,  per- 
haps. 

Voice.  Why  ?  I  won't  be  bothered  about. 
(^Begins  in  a  hoarse  quaver) : — 

"  Minnie  bakes  oaten  cake,  Minnie  brews  ale, 
All  because  her  Johnnie's  coming  home  from  the  sea. 
(That's  parade,  Pip.) 

And  she  grows  red  as  rose,  who  was  so  pale ; 
And  « Are  you  sure  the  church-clock  goes  ? '  says  she." 

(Pettishly.)  I  knew  I  couldn't  take  the  last 
note.  How  do  the  bass  chords  run  ?  (Puts  out 
her  hands  and  begins  playing  piano  on  the  sheet.) 

Capt.  G.  (Catching  up  hands.)  Ahh!  Don't 
do  that,  Pussy,  if  you  love  me. 

Voice.  Love  you.^  Of  course  I  do.  "Who 
else  should  it  be  ?    (A  pause.) 

Voice.  (Very  clearly.)  Pip,  I'm  going  now. 
Something's  choking  me  cruelly.     (Indistinctly.) 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  131 

Into  the  dark — without  you,  my  heart. — But  it's 
a  lie,  dear — we  mustn't  believe  it. — Forever  and 
ever,  living  or  dead.  Don't  let  me  go,  my  hus- 
band— hold  me  tight. — They  can't — whatever 
happens.  (^A  cough.)  Pip — my  Pip!  Not  for 
always — and— so — soon !    ( Voice  ceases. ) 

Pause  often  mimUes,     G.  buries  his  face  in 

the  side  of  the  bed  while  Ayah  bends  over 

bed  from  opposite  side  and  feels  Mrs.  G.'s 

breast  and  forehead. 

Capt.  G.     {Rising.)     Doctor  Sahib  ko  salaam 

do. 

Ayah.  {Still  by  bedside,  with  a  shriek.)  Ai! 
Ai!  Tuta—phuta!  }Ay  Memsahib  !  Not  getting 
— not  have  got  I — Pusseena  agya!  (The  sweat  has 
come.)  {Fiercely  to  G.)  Tum  jao  Doctor  Sahib 
ko  jaldi!  {You  go  to  the  doctor.)  Oh,  my 
Memsahib  ! 

Doctor.  {Entering  hastily.)  Come  away, 
Gadsby.  {Bends  over  bed.)  Eh!  The  Dev — 
What  inspired  you  to  stop  the  punkah  ?  Get  out, 
man — go  away — wait  outside!  Go!  Here, 
Ayah!  {Over  his  shoulder  to  G.)  Mind  I  prom- 
ise nothing. 

The  dawn  breaks  as  G.  stumbles  into  the 
garden. 
Capt.  M.     {Reining  up  at  the  gate  on  his  way 
to  parade  and  very  soberly.)     Old  man,  how 
goes? 


132  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

Capt.  G.  (Da^ed.')  I  don't  quite  know. 
Stay  a  bit.  Have  a  drink  or  something.  Don't 
run  away.  You're  just  getting  amusing.  Ha! 
Ha! 

Capt.  M.  (Aside.)  What  am  I  let  in  for? 
Gaddy  has  aged  ten  years  in  the  night. 

Capt.  G.  (Slowly,  fingering  charger's  head- 
stall.)   Your  curb's  too  loose. 

Capt.  M.  So  it  is.  Put  it  straight,  will  you  ? 
(Aside.)  I  shall  be  late  for  parade.  Poor 
Gaddy. 

Capt.  G.  links  and  unlinks  curb-chain 
aimlessly,  and  finally  stands  staring  to- 
ward the  veranda.     The  day  brighte^is. 

Doctor.  (Knocked  out  ofprofessional gravity, 
tramping  across  flower-beds  and  shaking  G's 
hands.)  It's — it's — it's! — Gadsby,  there's  a  fair 
chance — a  dashed  fair  chance!  The  flicker, 
y'know.  The  sweat,  y'know!  I  saw  how  it 
would  be.  The  punkah,  y'know.  Deuced 
clever  woman  that  Ayah  of  yours.  Stopped  the 
punkah  just  at  the  right  time.  A  dashed  good 
chance!  No — you  don't  go  in.  We'll  pull  her 
through  yet  1  promise  on  my  reputation — under 
Providence.  Send  a  man  with  this  note  to  Bingle. 
Two  heads  better  than  one.  'Specially  the  Ayah ! 
We'll  pull  her  round.  (Retreats  hastily  to 
house.) 

Capt.  G.     (His  head  on  neck  o/M.'s  charger.) 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  133 

Jack!  I  bub — bub — believe,  I'm  going  to  make 
a  bub — bub — bloody  exhibitiod  of  byself. 

Capt.  M.  {Sniffing  openly  and  feeling  in  his. 
left  cuff.)  I  b-b — believe,  I'b  doing  it  already. 
Old  bad,  what  cad  I  say  ?  I'b  as  pleased  as — 
Cod  dab  you,  Gaddy!  You're  one  big  idiot  and 
I'b  adother.  (Pulling  himself  together.)  Sit 
tight!     Here  comes  the  Devil-dodger. 

Junior  Chaplain.  {Who  is  not  in  the  Doctor's 
confidence.)  We — we  are  only  men  in  these 
things,  Gadsby.  I  know  that  I  can  say  nothing 
now  to  help  — 

Capt.  M.  {Jealously.)  Then  don't  say  it! 
Leave  him  alone.  It's  not  bad  enough  to  croak 
over.  Here,  Gaddy,  take  the  chit  to  Bingle  and 
ride  hell-for-leather.     It'll  do  you  good.     I  can't 

go. 

Junior  Chaplain.  Do  him  good!  (Smiling.) 
Give  me  the  chit  and  I'll  drive.  Let  him  lie 
down.     Your  horse  is  blocking  my  cart— please/ 

Capt.  M.  (Slozvly  zii'thout  reining  back.)  I 
beg  your  pardon — I'll  apologize.  On  paper  if 
you  like. 

Junior  Chaplain.  (Flicking  M.'s  charger.) 
That'll  do,  thanks.  Turn  in,  Gadsby,  and  I'll 
bring  Bingle  back — ahem — "hell-for-leather." 

Capt.  M.  (Solus.)  It  would  have  served  me 
right  if  he'd  cut  me  across  the  face.  He  can 
drive  too.     I  shouldn't  care  to  go  that  pace  in  a 


134  7"/?^  yalley  of  ike  Shadow 

bamboo  cart.  What  a  faith  he  must  have  in  his 
Maker — of  harness!  Come  hup,  you  brute! 
(Gallops  off  to  parade,  blowing  his  nose,  as  the 
sun  rises.) 

(INTERVAL   OF   FIVE   WEEKS.) 

Mrs.  G.  {yery  white  and  pinched,  in  morning 
wrapper  at  breakfast  table.)  How  big  and 
strange  the  room  looks,  and  oh  how  glad  I  am  to 
see  it  again!  What  dust,  though  I  I  must  talk 
to  the  servants.  Sugar,  Pip  ?  I've  almost  for- 
gotten.    (^Seriously.)    Wasn't  I  very  ill  .^ 

Capt.  G.  Iller  than  I  liked.  {Tenderly.)  Oh, 
you  bad  little  Pussy,  what  a  start  you  gave  me! 

Mrs.  G.     I'll  never  do  it  again. 

Capt.  G.  You"d  better  not.  And  now  get 
those  poor  pale  cheeks  pink  again,  or  I  shall  be 
angry.  Don't  try  to  lift  the  urn.  You'll  upset 
it.  Wait.  {Comes  round  to  head  of  table  and 
lifts  urn. ) 

Mrs.  G.  {Quickly.)  Khitmatgar,  bowarchi- 
khana  see  hettly  lao.  Butler,  get  a  kettle  from 
the  cook-house.  {Drawing  down  G.'s  face  to  her 
own.)     Pip  dear,  /  remember. 

Capt.  G.     What } 

Mrs.  G.     That  last  terrible  night. 

Capt.  G.     Then  just  you  forget  all  about  it. 

Mrs.  G.  {Softly,  her  eyes  filling.)  Never. 
It  has  brought  us  very  close  together,  my  hus- 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  135 

band.  There!  {Interlude.)  I'm  going  to  give 
Junda  a  saree. 

Capt.  G.     I  gave  her  fifty  dibs. 

Mrs.  G.  So  she  told  me.  It  was  a  'normous 
reward.  V/as  I  worth  it  .^  {Several  interludes.) 
Don't!  Here's  the  khitmatgar. — Two  lumps  or 
one,  Sir  ? 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN 

If  thou  hast  run  with  the  footmen  and  they  have  wearied 
thee,  then  how  canst  thou  contend  with  horses  ?  And  if  in  the 
land  of  peace  wherein  thou  trustedst  they  wearied  thee,  then 
how  wilt  thou  do  in  the  swelling  of  Jordan  ? 

Scene. — The  Gadsbys'  bungalow  in  the  Plains,  on 
a  January  morning.  Mrs.  G.  arguing  with 
hearer  in  hack  veranda. 

Capt.  M.  rides  up. 
Capt.  M.     'Mornin',  Mrs.  Gadsby.     How's  the 
Infant  Phenomenon  and  the  Proud  Proprietor } 

Mrs.  G.  You'll  find  them  in  the  front  veranda; 
go  through  the  house.     I'm  Martha  just  now. 

Capt.  M.  'Cumbered  about  with  cares  of  hhit- 
matgars  ?    I  fly. 

Passes  into  front  veranda,  where  Gadsby 
is   watching    Gadsby  Junior,    aged  ten 
months,  crawling  about  the  matting. 
Capt.  M.     What's  the  trouble,  Gaddy — spoil- 
ing an  honest  man's  Europe  morning  this  way  ? 
{Seeing   G.   Junior.)     By    Jove,    that    yearling's 
comin'  on  amazingly!     Any  amount  of  bone  be- 
low the  knee  there. 

Capt.  G.     Yes,  he's  a  healthy  little  scoundrel. 
Don't  you  think  his  hair's  growing  } 
U9 


140  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

M.  Let's  have  a  look.  Hi!  Hst!  Come  here, 
General  Luck,  and  we'll  report  on  you. 

Mrs.  G.  (IVithin.)  What  absurd  name  will 
you  give  him  next.^  Why  do  you  call  him 
that  } 

M.  Isn't  he  our  Inspector-General  of  Cavalry  } 
Doesn't  he  come  down  in  his  seventeen-two  per- 
ambulator every  morning  the  Pink  Hussars  pa- 
rade }  Don't  wriggle,  Brigadier.  Give  us  your 
private  opinion  on  the  way  the  third  squadron 
went  past.     'Trifle  ragged,  weren't  they  } 

G.  A  bigger  set  of  tailors  than  the  new  draft 
I  don't  wish  to  see.  They've  given  me  more 
than  my  fair  share — knocking  the  squadron  out 
of  shape.     It's  sickening! 

M.  When  you're  in  command,  you'll  do  bet- 
ter, young 'un.  Can't  you  walk  yet?  Grip  my 
finger  and  try.  {ToG.)  'Twon't  hurt  his  hocks, 
will  it  ? 

G.  Oh,  no.  Don't  let  him  flop,  though,  or 
he'll  lick  all  the  blacking  off  your  boots. 

Mrs.  G.  (IVithin.)  Who's  destroying  my 
son's  character  ? 

M.  And  my  Godson's.  I'm  ashamed  of  you, 
Gaddy.  Punch  your  father  in  the  eye.  Jack! 
Don't  you  stand  it!     Hit  him  again! 

G.  [Soito  voce.)  Put  The  Butcha  down  and 
come  to  the  end  of  the  veranda.  I'd  rather  the 
Wife  didn't  hear — just  now. 


The  S'-iVellmg  of  Jordan  141 

M.  You  look  awfly  serious.  Anything 
wrong  ? 

G.  'Depends  on  your  view  entirely.  I  say, 
Jack,  you  won't  think  more  hardly  of  me  than 
you  can  help,  will  you  ?  Come  further  this  v/ay. 
— The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  that  I've  made  up 
my  mind — at  least  I'm  thinking  seriously  of — cut- 
ting the  Service. 

M.     Hwhatt.^ 

G.  Don't  shout.  I'm  going  to  send  in  my 
papers. 

M.     You  I     Are  you  mad  .^ 

G.     No — only  married. 

M.  Look  here!  What's  the  meaning  of  it  all  ? 
You  never  intend  to  leave  us.  You  can't.  Isn't 
the  best  squadron  of  the  best  regiment  of  the  best 
cavalry  in  all  the  world  good  enough  for  you  ? 

G.  (Jerking  his  head  over  his  shoulder.)  She 
doesn't  seem  to  thrive  in  this  God-forsaken  coun- 
try, and  there's  The  Biitcha  to  be  considered  and 
all  that,  you  know. 

M.     Does  she  say  that  she  doesn't  like  India  } 

G.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  She  won't  for  fear 
of  leaving  me. 

M.     'What  are  the  Hills  made  for  } 

G.     Not  for  7ny  wife,  at  any  rate. 

M.  You  know  too  much,  Gaddy,  and — I  don't 
like  you  any  the  better  for  it! 

G.     Never  mind  that.     She   wants    England, 


142  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

and  The  Bittcha  would  be  all  the  better  for  it. 
I'm  going  to  chuck.     You  don't  understand. 

M.  {Hotly.)  I  understand  this.  One  hun- 
dred and  thirty-seven  new  horses  to  be  licked 
into  shape  somehow  before  Luck  comes  round 
again;  a  hairy-heeled  draft  who'll  give  more 
trouble  than  the  horses ;  a  camp  next  cold  weather 
for  a  certainty;  ourselves  the  first  on  the  roster; 
the  Russian  shindy  ready  to  come  to  a  head  at 
five  minutes'  notice,  and  you,  the  best  of  us  all, 
backing  out  of  it  all!  Think  a  little,  Gaddy. 
You  ivont  do  it. 

G.  Hang  it,  a  man  has  some  duties  toward 
his  family,  I  suppose. 

M.  I  remember  a  man,  though,  who  told  me, 
the  night  after  Amdheran,  when  we  were  pick- 
eted under  Jagai,  and  he'd  left  his  sword — by  the 
way,  did  you  ever  pay  Ranken  for  that  sword  } 
— in  an  Utmanzai's  head — that  man  told  me  that 
he'd  stick  by  me  and  the  Pinks  as  long  as  he 
lived.  I  don't  blame  him  for  not  sticking  by  me 
— I'm  not  much  of  a  man — but  I  do  blame  him 
for  not  sticking  by  the  Pink  Hussars. 

G.  {Uneasily.)  We  were  little  more  than 
boys  then.  Can't  you  see,  Jack,  how  things 
stand  .^  'Tisn't  as  if  we  were  serving  for  our 
bread.  We've  all  of  us,  more  or  less,  got  the 
filthy  lucre.  I'm  luckier  than  some,  perhaps. 
There's  no  call  for  me  to  serve  on. 


The  Sicelling  of  Jordan  143 

M.  None  in  the  world  for  you  or  for  us,  ex- 
cept the  Regimental.  If  you  don't  choose  to  an- 
swer to  that,  of  course  — 

G.  Don't  be  too  hard  on  a  man.  You  know 
that  a  lot  of  us  only  take  up  the  thing  for  a  few 
years  and  then  go  back  to  Town  and  catch  on 
with  the  rest. 

M.     Not  lots,  and  they  aren't  some  of  Us, 

G.  And  then  there  are  one's  affairs  at  Home 
to  be  considered — my  place  and  the  rents,  and  all 
that.  I  don't  suppose  my  father  can  last  much 
longer,  and  that  means  the  title,  and  so  on. 

M.  'Fraid  you  won't  be  entered  in  the  Stud 
Book  correctly  unless  you  go  Home  }  Take  six 
months,  then,  and  come  out  in  October.  If  I 
could  slay  off  a  brother  or  two,  I  s'pose  I  should 
be  a  iMarquis  of  sorts.  Any  fool  can  be  that; 
but  it  needs  men,  Gaddy — men  like  you — to  lead 
flanking  squadrons  properly.  Don't  you  delude 
yourself  into  the  belief  that  you're  going  Home 
to  take  your  place  and  prance  about  among 
pink-nosed  Kabuli  dowagers.  You  aren't  built 
that  way.     1  know  better. 

G.  A  man  has  a  right  to  live  his  life  as  happily 
as  he  can.     You  aren't  married. 

M.  No — praise  be  to  Providence  and  the  one 
or  two  women  who  have  had  the  good  sense  to 
ja-ucah  me. 

G.     Then  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  go  into 


144  T^^^  Szselling  of  Jordan 

your  own  room  and  see  your  wife's  head  on  the 
pillow,  and  when  everything  else  is  safe  and  the 
house  shut  up  for  the  night,  to  wonder  whether 
the  roof-beams  won't  give  and  kill  her. 

M.  {Aside.)  Revelations  first  and  second! 
(^Aloud.)  So-o!  I  knew  a  man  who  got  squiffy 
at  our  Mess  once  and  confided  to  me  that  he 
never  helped  his  wife  on  to  her  horse  without 
praying  that  she'd  break  her  neck  before  she 
came  back.     All  husbands  aren't  alike,  you  see. 

G.  What  on  earth  has  that  to  do  with  my 
case  }  The  man  must  ha'  been  mad,  or  his  wife 
as  bad  as  they  make  'em. 

M.  {Aside.)  'No  fault  of  yours  if  either 
weren't  all  you  say.  You've  forgotten  the  time 
when  you  were  insane  about  the  Herriott  woman. 
You  always  were  a  good  hand  at  forgetting. 
{Aloud.)  Not  more  mad  than  men  who  go  to 
the  other  extreme.  Be  reasonable,  Gaddy.  Your 
roof-beams  are  sound  enough. 

G.  That  was  only  a  way  of  speaking.  I've 
been  uneasy  and  worried  about  the  Wife  ever 
since  that  awful  business  three  years  ago — when 
— I  nearly  lost  her.     Can  you  wonder  } 

M.  Oh,  a  shell  never  falls  twice  in  the  same 
place.  You've  paid  your  toll  to  misfortune — 
why  should  your  Wife  be  picked  out  more  than 
anybody  else's  ? 

G.     I  can  talk  just  as  reasonably  as  you  can, 


The  Swelling  of  Jorda^i  145 

but  you  don't  understand — you  don't  understand. 
And  then  there's  The  Butcha.  Deuce  knows 
where  the  Ayah  takes  him  to  sit  in  the  evening! 
He  has  a  bit  of  a  cough.  Haven't  you  noticed 
it? 

M.  Bosh!  The  Brigadier's  jumping  out  of  his 
skin  with  pure  condition.  He's  got  a  muzzle 
like  a  rose-leaf  and  the  chest  of  a  two-year-old. 
What's  demoralized  you  ? 

G.  Funk.  That's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it. 
Funk! 

M.     But  what  is  there  to  funk  ? 

G.     Everything.     It's  ghastly. 

M.     Ah!     I  see. 

You  don't  want  to  fight, 

And  by  Jingo  when  we  do, 
You've  got  the  kid,  you've  got  the  Wife, 

You've  got  the  money,  too. 

That's  about  the  case,  eh  ? 

G.  I  suppose  that's  it.  But  it's  not  for  my- 
self.    Ifs  because  of  them.    At  least  1  think  it  is. 

M.  Are  you  sure  }  Looking  at  the  matter  in 
a  cold-blooded  light,  the  Wife  is  provided  for 
even  if  you  were  wiped  out  to-night.  She  has 
an  ancestral  home  to  go  to,  money,  and  the  Brig- 
adier to  carry  on  the  illustrious  name. 

G.  Then  it  is  for  myself  or  because  they  are 
part   of   me.     You   don't    see   it.     My   life's   so 


146  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

good,  so  pleasant,  as  it  is,  that  I  want  to  make  it 
quite  safe.     Can't  you  understand  ? 

M.  Perfectly.  '*  Shelter-pit  for  the  Orf'cer's 
charger,"  as  they  say  in  the  Line. 

G.  And  I  have  everything  to  my  hand  to 
make  it  so.  I'm  sick  of  the  strain  and  the  worry 
for  their  sakes  out  here;  and  there  isn't  a  single 
real  difficulty  to  prevent  my  dropping  it  alto- 
gether. It'll  only  cost  me — Jack,  I  hope  you'll 
never  know  the  shame  that  I've  been  going 
through  for  the  past  six  months. 

M.  Hold  on  there!  I  don't  wish  to  be  told. 
Every  man  has  his  moods  and  tenses  sometimes. 

G.  (^Laughing  bitterly.)  Has  he.^  What  do 
you  call  craning  over  to  see  where  your  near-fore 
lands  } 

M.  In  my  case  it  means  that  I  have  been  on 
the  Considerable  Bend,  and  have  come  to  parade 
with  a  Head  and  a  Hand.  It  passes  in  three 
strides. 

G.  (Lowering  voice.)  It  never  passes  with 
me.  Jack.  I'm  always  thinking  about  it.  Phil 
Gadsby  funking  a  fall  on  parade!  Sweet  picture, 
isn't  it!     Draw  it  for  me. 

M.  {Gravely.)  Heaven  forbid!  A  man  like 
you  can't  be  as  bad  as  that.  A  fall  is  no  nice 
thing,  but  one  never  gives  it  a  thought. 

G.  Doesn't  one  ?  Wait  till  you've  got  a  wife 
and  a  youngster  of  your  own,  and  then  you'll 


The  Swelling  of  Jordan  147 

know  how  the  roar  of  the  squadron  behind  you 
turns  you  cold  all  up  the  back. 

M.  {Aside.)  And  this  man  led  at  Amdheran 
after  Bagal-Deasin  went  under,  and  we  were  all 
mixed  up  together,  and  he  came  out  of  the  show 
dripping  like  a  butcher.  (Aloud.)  Skittles! 
The  men  can  always  open  out,  and  you  can 
always  pick  your  way  more  or  less.  JVe  haven't 
the  dust  to  bother  us,  as  the  men  have,  and  who- 
ever heard  of  a  horse  stepping  on  a  man  ? 

G.  Never — as  long  as  he  can  see.  But  did 
they  open  out  for  poor  Errington  ? 

M.     Oh,  this  is  childish! 

G.  I  know  it  is,  worse  than  that.  I  don't 
care.  You've  ridden  Van  Loo.  Is  he  the  sort  of 
brute  to  pick  his  way — 'specially  when  we're 
coming  up  in  column  of  troop  with  any  pace  on  ? 

M.  Once  in  a  Blue  Moon  do  we  gallop  in 
column  of  troop,  and  then  only  to  save  time. 
Aren't  three  lengths  enough  for  you  ? 

G.  Yes — quite  enough.  They  just  allow  for 
the  full  development  of  the  smash.  I'm  talking 
like  a  cur,  I  know:  but  I  tell  you  that,  for  the 
past  three  months,  I've  felt  every  hoof  of  the 
squadron  in  the  small  of  my  back  every  time  that 
I've  led. 

M.     But,  Gaddy,  this  is  awful! 

G.  Isn't  it  lovely  ?  Isn't  it  royal  ?  A  Captain 
of  the  Pink  Hussars  watering  up  his  charger  be- 


148  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

fore  parade  like  the  blasted  boozing  Colonel  of  a 
Black  Regiment! 

M.     You  never  did! 

G.  Once  only.  He  squelched  like  a  mussuch, 
and  the  Troop-Sergeant-Major  cocked  his  eye  at 
me.  You  know  old  Haffy's  eye.  I  was  afraid 
to  do  it  again. 

M.  I  should  think  so.  That  was  the  best  way 
to  rupture  old  Van  Loo's  tummy,  and  make  him 
crumple  you  up.     You  knew  that. 

G.     I  didn't  care.     It  took  the  edge  off  him. 

M.  **  Took  the  edge  off  him".?  Gaddy,  you — 
you — you  mustn't,  you  know !    Think  of  the  men. 

G.  That's  another  thing  1  am  afraid  of.  D'you 
s'pose  they  know } 

M.  Let's  hope  not;  but  they're  deadly  quick 
to  spot  skrim — little  things  of  that  kind.  See 
here,  old  man,  send  the  Wife  Home  for  the  hot 
weather  and  come  to  Kashmir  with  me.  We'll 
start  a  boat  on  the  Dal  or  cross  the  Rhotang— 
shoot  ibex  or  loaf — which  you  please.  Only 
come!  You're  a  bit  off  your  oats  and  you're 
talking  nonsense.  Look  at  the  Colonel — swag- 
bellied  rascal  that  he  is.  He  has  a  wife  and  no 
end  of  a  bow-window  of  his  own.  Can  any  one 
of  us  ride  round  him — chalkstones  and  all }  I 
can't,  and  1  think  1  can  shove  a  crock  along  a  bit. 

G.  Some  men  are  different.  I  haven't  the 
nerve.     Lord  help  me,  1  haven't  the  nerve!     I've 


The  Szvelling  of  Jordan  149 

taken  up  a  hole  and  a  half  to  get  my  knees  well 
under  the  wallets.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  so  afraid 
of  anything  happening  to  me.  On  my  soul,  1 
ought  to  be  broke  in  front  of  the  squadron,  for 
cowardice. 

M.  Ugly  word,  that.  I  should  never  have  the 
courage  to  own  up. 

G.  I  meant  to  lie  about  my  reasons  when  I 
began,  but — I've  got  out  of  the  habit  of  lying  to 
you,  old  man.  Jack,  you  won't } — But  I  know 
you  won't. 

M.  Of  course  not.  {Half  aloud.)  The  Pinks 
are  paying  dearly  for  their  Pride. 

G.     Eh  I     Wha-at? 

xM.  Don't  you  know  ?  The  men  have  called 
Mrs.  Gadsby  the  Pride  of  the  Pink  Hussars  ever 
since  she  came  to  us. 

G.  'Tisn't  her  fault.  Don't  think  that.  It's 
all  mine. 

M.     'What  does  she  say  ? 

G.  1  haven't  exactly  put  it  before  her.  She's 
the  best  little  woman  in  the  world,  jack,  and  all 
that — but  she  wouldn't  counsel  a  man  to  stick  to 
his  calling  if  it  came  between  him  and  her.  At 
least,  I  think  — 

M.  Never  mind.  Don't  tell  her  what  you  told 
me.    Go  on  the  Peerage  and  Landed-Gentry  tack. 

G.  She'd  see  through  it.  She's  five  times 
cleverer  than  I  am. 


150  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

M.  {Aside.)  Then  she'll  accept  the  sacrifice 
and  think  a  little  bit  worse  of  him  for  the  rest  of 
her  days. 

G.     {Absently.)    I  say,  do  you  despise  me  ? 

M.  'Queer  way  of  putting  it.  Have  you  ever 
been  asked  that  question  ?  Think  a  minute.  What 
answer  used  you  to  give  } 

G.  So  bad  as  that?  I'm  not  entitled  to  ex- 
pect anything  more,  but  it's  a  bit  hard  when  one's 
iDest  friend  turns  round  and  — 

M.  So  /  have  found.  But  you  will  have  con- 
solations— Bailiffs  and  Drains  and  Liquid  Manure 
and  the  Primrose  League,  and,  perhaps,  if  you're 
lucky,  the  Colonelcy  of  a  Yeomanry  Cav-al-ry 
Regiment — all  uniform  and  no  riding,  I  believe. 
How  old  are  you  ? 

G.     Thirty-three.     I  know  it's  — 

M.  At  forty  you'll  be  a  fool  of  a  J. P.  landlord. 
At  fifty  you'll  own  a  bath-chair,  and  The  Briga- 
dier, if  he  takes  after  you,  will  be  fluttering 
the  dovecotes  of — what's  the  particular  dunghill 
you're  going  to  }    Also,  Mrs.  Gadsby  will  be  fat. 

G.  {Limply.)  This  is  rather  more  than  a 
joke. 

M.  D'you  think  so  ?  Isn't  cutting  the  Service 
a  joke  ?  It  generally  takes  a  man  fifty  years  to 
arrive  at  it.  You're  quite  right,  though.  It  is 
more  than  a  joke.  You've  managed  it  in  thirty- 
three. 


The  Sweeling  of  Jordan  151 

G.  Don't  make  me  feel  worse  than  I  do.  Will 
it  satisfy  you  if  I  own  that  I  am  a  shirker,  a 
skrim-shanker,  and  a  coward  ? 

M.  It  will  not,  because  I'm  the  only  man  in 
the  world  who  can  talk  to  you  like  this  without 
being  knocked  down.  You  mustn't  take  all  that 
I've  said  to  heart  in  this  way.  I  only  spoke — a 
lot  of  it  at  least — out  of  pure  selfishness,  because, 
because —  Oh,  damn  it  all,  old  man, — I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  do  without  you.  Of  course, 
youVe  got  the  money  and  the  place  and  all  that 
— and  there  are  two  very  good  reasons  why  you 
should  take  care  of  yourself. 

G.  'Doesn't  make  it  any  the  sweeter.  I'm 
backing  out — I  know  I  am.  I  always  had  a  soft 
drop  in  me  somewhere — and  I  daren't  risk  any 
danger  to  them. 

M.  'Why  in  the  world  should  you  }  You're 
bound  to  think  of  your  family — bound  to  think. 
Er-hmm.  If  I  wasn't  a  younger  son  I'd  go  too — 
be  shot  if  I  wouldn't! 

G.  Thank  you,  Jack.  It's  a  kind  lie,  but  it's 
the  blackest  you've  told  for  some  time.  I  know 
what  I'm  doing,  and  I'm  going  into  it  with  my 
eyes  open.  Old  man,  I  can't  help  it.  What 
would  you  do  if  you  were  in  my  place  ? 

M.  {Aside.)  'Couldn't  conceive  any  wom.an 
getting  permanently  between  me  and  the  Regi- 
ment.     (Aloud.)      'Can't  say.      'Very  likely   I 


1 52  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

should  do  no  better.  I'm  sorry  for  you — awf  ly 
sorry — but  "  if  them's  your  sentiments,"  I  believe, 
1  really  do,  that  you  are  acting  wisely. 

G.  Do  you  ?  I  hope  you  do.  {In  a  whisper.) 
Jack,  be  very  sure  of  yourself  before  you  marry. 
I'm  an  ungrateful  ruffian  to  say  this,  but  mar- 
riage— even  as  good  a  marriage  as  mine  has  been 
— hampers  a  man's  work,  it  cripples  his  sv/ord- 
arm,  and  oh,  it  plays  Hell  with  his  notions  of 
duty !  Sometimes — good  and  sweet  as  she  is — 
sometimes  1  could  wish  that  I  had  kept  my  free- 
dom—    No,  I  don't  mean  that  exactly. 

Mrs.  G.  {Coming  down  veranda.)  What  are 
you  wagging  your  head  over,  Pip  ? 

M.  {Turning  quickly.)  Me,  as  usual.  The 
old  sermon.  Your  husband  is  recommending  me 
to  get  married.  'Never  saw  such  a  one-ideaed 
man! 

Mrs.  G.  Well,  why  don't  you  ?  I  dare  say 
you  would  make  some  woman  very  happy. 

G.  There's  the  Law  and  the  Prophets,  Jack. 
Never  mind  the  Regiment.  Make  a  woman 
happy.     (Aside.)    O  Lord! 

M.  We'll  see.  1  must  be  off  to  make  a  Troop 
Cook  desperately  unhappy.  I  won't  have  the 
wily  Hussar  fed  on  Government  Bullock  Train 
shinbones — [Hastily.)  Surely  black  ants  can't  be 
good  for  The  Brigadier.  He's  picking  'em  off 
the  matting  and  eating  'em.     Here,  Senor  Com- 


The  Swelling  of  Jordan  153 

andante  Don  Grubbynose,  come  and  talk  to  me. 
(Lifts  G.  Junior  in  his  arms.)  'Want  my  watch  ? 
You  won't  be  able  to  put  it  into  your  mouth,  but 
you  can  try.  (G.  Junior  drops  -watch,  breaking 
dial  and  hands.) 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  Captain  iMafflin,  I  am  so  sorry! 
Jack,  you  bad,  bad  little  villain.     Ahhh! 

M.  It's  not  the  least  consequence,  I  assure 
you.  He'd  treat  the  world  in  the  same  way  if  he 
could  get  it  into  his  hands.  Everything's  made 
to  be  played  with  and  broken,  isn't  it,  young  'un  } 

=!^  *  ^  ^  ^  ;J{ 

Mrs.  G.  Mafflin  didn't  at  all  like  his  watch 
being  broken,  though  he  was  too  polite  to  say 
so.  It  was  entirely  his  fault  for  giving  it  to  the 
child.  Dem  little  puds  are  werry,  werry  feeble, 
aren't  dey,  my  Jack-in-de-box  ?  {To  G.)  What 
did  he  want  to  see  you  for  ? 

G.     Regimental  shop  as  usual. 

Mrs.  G.  The  Regiment!  Always  the  Regi- 
ment. On  my  word,  I  sometimes  feel  jealous  of 
Mafflin. 

G.  {Wearily.)  Poor  old  Jack  .?  I  don't  think 
you  need.  Isn't  it  time  for  The  Biitcha  to  have 
his  nap  }  Bring  a  chair  out  here,  dear.  I've  got 
something  to  talk  over  with  you. 

And  this  is  the  End  of  the  Story  of  the 
Gadsbys. 


A    DAUGHTER    OF 
THE   PHILISTINES 

B/  LEONARD  MERRICK 

"'S  is  the  kind  one  longs  to  find  after  faying 
many  and  not  meeting  satisfaction.'*— Tlfw^f 
Union,  Albany, 

**  A  constantly  increasing  pleasure  as  you  peruse 
page  after  page." — Evenhig  Gazette^  Boston. 

"  It  is  a  good  one  and  an  interesting  one." — Buf- 
falo Express. 

•'A  noteworthy  novel," — Chicly o  Tribune. 

"  He  works  out  the  situation  to  a  fortunate  con- 
clusion. "—^^^/^  Buyer. 

•'  A  di§^nctly  good  novel  of  real  MoJ** -^Boston 
Times. 

*'  A  capixal  story." — New  York  Pres, . 

''  It  is  a  novel  of  more  than  usual  interest  xad 
cannot  fail  of  an  abundant  popularity.** — Artnyand 
Navyjourfial. 

*'A  delightful  story." — Cincinnati  Enquirer. 

*'  Has  a  quality  of  its  own." — Literary  World. 

"  Unusually  strong  TpoinXs.'^-Buffalo  Commercial 

*•  An  extremely  clever  story." — Albany  Argus. 

"Interesting  creation." — Louisville  Times. 

"  With  a  feeling  of  loving  regret  I  lay  down  the 
book." — Evening  Record. 

••  An  interesting  and  well  told  ta\&.'*^-- Evening 
Siar,  Washington. 

**  An  extremely  clever  tale." — Indianapolis  Sen^ 
Hnel. 

"More  than  usually  interesting.'* — News,  In- 
dianapolis. 

"  An  excellent  stcry  well  told.*' — Rochester 
Herald. 

"  Starts  upon  a  good  literary  level,  and  maintains 
it  to  the  end,  and  never  for  a  moment^  degen- 
erates, ....  One  sits  through  the  story  with  gen- 
uine pleasm^,  and  rises  from  the  reading  of  it  witij 
Uidubitable  refreshment." — Daily  Chronicle. 

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An  Unofficial  Patriot 

By  HELEN  H.   GARDENER 

**  It  is  a  side  of  the  slavery  question  of  which  NortJr- 
ern  people  knew  nothing."— ^c'-^w  A.  Cockerill,  N,  V. 
Advertiser. 

**  Strong  and  picturesque  sketches  of  camp  and  field 
in  the  days  of  the  Civil  War." — San  Francisco  Chron, 
icle. 

"The  book  is  being  dramatized  by  Mr.  James  A. 
Heme,  the  well->».own  actor,  author  and  manager." — 
N,  Y.  Press. 

"  It  tells  a  splendid  story .^^  —Journal ,  Cohimbus,  O 
*  Will  be  sure  to  attract  the  attention  it  deser^-es." 
— Philadelphia  Press. 

*'  In  its  scope  and  power  it  is  unrivalled  among  war 
stories." — Ideas,  Boston,  Mass. 

"In  many  ways  the   most    remarkable   historic^ 
novel  of  the  Civil  War." — Home  Journal  .Boston , Mass. 

"  The  inter\'iew  with  Lincoln  is  one  oi  the  finest  bits 
of  dialogue  in  a  modern  book." — Chicane  Herald. 

"  Will  probably  be  the  most  popular  and  saleable 
novel  since  Robert  Elsmere." — Republican . 

"  One  of  the  most  instructive  and  fascmating  v.iiters 
of  our  time." — Courier  Journal,  Louisville. 

"Is  calculated  to  command  as  wide  attention  as 
Judge  Tourgee's  "Fool's  Errand." — N.  Y.  Evening 
Telegram. 

"  Has  enriched  American  literature," — Item,  Phil' 
delphia. 

'  'RemarkaMy  true  to  history. ''''-Inter-Ocean,Chicago 
*'  Entitled  to  a  place  with  standard  histories  of  tlie 
War. " — Atlanta  Journal. 


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THE  DAGGER 

AND  THE  CROSS 

BY 

JOSEPH   HATTON 

Author  of  "  By  Order  of  the  Czar.'* 

^*       ^*       %^ 

*'Mostidramatic  manner Deserves  to  rank 

well  up  in  current  fiction." — Minneapolis  Tribune. 

*'  Villainy  of  the  deepest  die,  heroism  of  the  high- 
est sort,  beauty  wronged  and  long  sufifering,  virtue 
finally  rewarded,  thrills  without  number." — St. 
Louis  Globe-Democrat, 

"  Clean  wholesome  story,  which  should  take 
prominent  place  in  current  fiction." — Chicago 
Record. 

*'  Finely  conceived  and  finely  written." — Toledo 
Blade. 

"  This  is  his  masterpiece." — Buffalo  Express. 

* '  The  chief  merit  is  the  account  of  the  Plague  in 

Eyam It  is  a  true  story  and  Eyam  is  a  real 

village. ' ' — Boston  Journal. 

*'  Weird  and  interesting  to  the  point  of  being 
absorbing.  The  only  way  to  get  the  story  is  to 
read  it."' — St.  Louis  Star. 

*  Seventeenth  centurj-  romance  steeped  in  the 
traditions  of  the  Church  and  of  the  timeSo" — Detroit 
Journal, 

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THE  CEDAR  STAR 

BY 

MARY   E.    MANN 

Author  of  "Susannah,** 

'*  An  admirable  piece  of  work,  and  is  worth  a 
crowd  of  far  more  pretentious  productions.'*— 
News  and  Courier ^  Charleston  ^  S.C. 

"  Heartily  alive  and  extremely  well  written.*'— 
Boston  Gazette. 

"  Resembles  some  of  Stockton's  works." — Pitts* 
burg  Press. 

"Takes  high  rank  among  a  decade's  array  of  en« 
tertaining  books." — Boston  Courier. 

"  Possessing  among  other  merits  that  of  original 
detail."  '—Cincinnati  Times-Star. 

*'  The  author  has  a  very  genius  for  clever  charac- 
ter-drawing. ' ' — Detroit  Journal. 

**  There  is  much  force  and  action," — Boston 
Herald. 

*' Intense  human  interest." — Bulletin. 

"  The  author  has  a  genius  for  clever  character 
drawing. ' ' — Baltimore  American. 

**  An  unusually  pleasing  novel  and  well  written.'* 

Philadelphia  Press. 

"A  charming  book,  beginning  with  good  chapters 
«rf  child-life,  and  containing  memorable  figures, 
notably  Billy  the  Curate  and  Betty  herself.  Betty 
is,  indeed,  quite  a  discovery." — London  Academ\^ 


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THE  MAN 
WHO  WAS   GOOD 

BY 

LEONARD    MERRICK 

AUTHOR    OF 

••  A  Daughter  of  the  Philistiees, ' *    **  One  Man's  Views," 

¥  ¥ 

"  A  second  success An  exceptionally  able 

novel." — Lite7'ary  Review. 

•'  Remarkable  for  its  splendid  delineation  of 
character,  its  workmanship  and  natural  arrangement 
of  plot. ' ' — Chicago  Daily  News.  ^ 

'  *  Has  distinction  of  style  and  character,  dramatic 
force  and  literary  effectiveness." — Phila.  Pres'i. 

*'  An  intensely  dramatic  story,  and  written  with 
force  and  precision." — New  York  Times. 

*•  Mr.  Merrick's  work  is  of  a  very  high  quality. 
Is  the  most  masterly  of  his  three  books." — Chicago 
Tribune. 

**  The  delicacy  of  the  character  sketching  has  a 
brilliancy  and  fascination  strangely  magnetic."— 
Minneapolis  Tribune. 

"Is  a  forceful,  dramatic  and  altogether  human 
story  of  English  life. '  '—Boston  Times. 

**  Strong  story." — Chicago  Record. 

•*  It  is  useless  to  say  that  so  strong,  so  fierce  a 
book  must  be  written  well." — Chicago  Times* 
Hercdd, 


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DEFIANT  HEARTS 

BY 

W.    HEIMBURG 

AUTHOR   OF 

"My  Heart's  Darling,"    "Her  Only  Brother,'*    "TalfiBOt 

an  Old  Castle,"  Etc.,  Etc 

**  Tne  story  is  true  to  life  in  some  of  its  manifold 
phases  and  will  repay  reading." — Minneapolis 
Tribune. 

"  It  is  written  in  the  usual  entertaining  style  of 
this  well  known  author." — Boston  Courier. 

"  Very  good  reading." — New  Orleans  Picayune, 

*  *  The  action  is  vigorous  and  the  storj-  is  interest- 
ing."—P/^i^/^V  Opinion.''' 

"  Capital  story  by  an  established  favorite." — 
Philadelphia  American. 

"  Is  a  charming  German  story  by  the  author  of 
"Heart's  Darling,"  "Good  Luck,"  "  Her  Only 
Brother,"  etc." — Southern  Star. 

"It  possesses  the  positive  virtue  of  being  pure 
and  wholesome  in  sentiment." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  It  comprises  all  the  many  qualities  of  romance 
that  recommend  all  Heimburg's  other  stories." — 
New  Haven  Journal. 

"  It  is  simple,  but  dignified  and  free  from  any  of 
those  smirches  that  suggest  the  presence  of  vice  and 
impurity." — N.  Y.  Home  Journal. 


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"When  The  World 
Was  Younger"^ 

By  M.  E.  BRADDON 

••  Miss  Braddon  skilfully  uses  as  a  background  the  great 
Prague  and  fire  in  London,  which  gives  realism  to  her  pic- 
ture."— Rochester  Herald. 

"The  characters  are  clearly  drawn  and  strongly  con- 
trasted. The  manners  of  the  times,  the  intrigues  of  the 
court,  the  landmarks  of  London,  are  unerringly  painted." 
Boston  Times. 

"  The  first  attempt  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon  has  made  in  the 
line  of  the  historical  novftV— Literary  World. 

"  She  has  chosen  the  period  of  the  Restoration  of  Charles 
the  Second  for  her  romance,  and  has  given  us  an  excellent 
description , of  the  state  of  society  in  London  and  at  the 
Court  during  the  reign  of  that  dissolute  monarch."— .^cwir 
Queen. 

"It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  story  is  well  told." — San 
Francisco  Chronicle. 

"One  of  the  strongest  and  most  enjoyable  of  her  stories  " 
•—Philadelphia  Inquirer, 

"It  abounds  in  mj'stif3'ing  plot,  lovable  characters,  rapid 
and  thrilling  incident  and  delightful  descriptions  of  English 
scenery." — Boston  Globe. 

"A  tale  worth  reading.'''— 5an  Francisco  Call. 

"Full  of  incident,  chapter  after  chapter,  brimming  with 
vital  meanings." — Boston  Courier. 

'•  Beautiful,  innocent  and  brave  was  Angela,  the  heroine." 
—Philadelphia  Bulletiti. 

"It  is  a  Braddon  story  in  the  famous  old  Braddon  vein." — 
St.  Louis  Mirror. 

"This  one  reviewing  the  days  of  Cromwell  and  the  Charles 
Is  no  shallow  piece  of  work." — Philadelphia  American. 

"Miss  Braddon  has  caught  the  atmosphere  cleverly  and 
manufactured  a  stirring  novel  which  bears  evidence  of 
careful  thought  and  planning."— C/iz<:a^o  Record. 

"The  sc^e  is  laid  in  England  in  the  early  days  of  the 
Restoration:  Charles  II.,  Nell  Gwynne,  Pepys,  and  Milton 
are  among  the  characters."— .5 wjftz/o  Express. 

"  None  of  her  books  tells  a  more  interesting  story."— St. 
^uis  Star. 


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